


With All You Have

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Acting, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Support Jarvis, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, God these tags are depressing, Grief/Mourning, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Partying, Self Confidence Issues, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Theater AU, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, i promise it's better than i'm making it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely playersThey have their exits and their entrancesAnd one man in his time plays many parts.A three-part story featuring Tony Stark's journey through life as an actor, his attempts to bury himself underneath characters, and the people who refuse to let him stay hidden.
Relationships: Edwin Jarvis & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 76





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by antifaironman's Theater Tony AU posts on tumblr, and the-faultofdaedalus's additions to it. I wrote a little [one shot](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/post/618165813756690432/okay-so-the-faultofdaedalus-im-not-gonna-lie%22) of this and then it begged to become A Thing, and this was the result.
> 
> As always, please let me know if I haven't tagged properly. Comments and reviews welcome.

_All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players_

_They have their exits and their entrances_

_And one man in his time plays many parts._

“Are you reading that damn book again?”

Tony closes the book quickly, tucking it behind his back. “It’s a play, Dad,” he says, wincing as the words leave without permission. “It’s Shakespeare.”

“It’s useless,” Howard growls, taking the book from him. “You and your damn fantasy worlds. Get out of here. Jarvis is waiting to take you to school.”

“Can I have—“

“No.” Howard puts the book under his arm. “Go on. Get out of here!”

Tony knows better than to ask twice.

Jarvis opens the car door as he comes down the steps. “Are you alright?” he asks, casting Tony a concerned look.

“I’m fine,” Tony says. “Dad…”

Jarvis holds up a hand. “Did he take your book again?”

“Yeah.” Tony kicks at the driveway. “It’s not fair, Jarvis. He doesn’t understand.”

“No. For all his other qualities, your father has never shown much love for the performing arts.” Jarvis holds the door for him. “Get in, Master Stark.”

Tony climbs into the back seat. “It’s not fair,” he says again. “Most parents would be really happy their kid is reading Shakespeare.”

“Your father is not most parents,” Jarvis says. He meets Tony’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “But _I_ , for one, think it’s marvelous. All young children should be so enthused about the Bard’s works.” He hands something into the backseat. “Consider this an early birthday present, my dear boy.”

Tony takes the package from him, tearing off the brown paper eagerly. It’s a hardcover book, a big one. _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. “Jarvis, I—“

“Hush,” Jarvis says, and he smiles at Tony. “Regardless of what your father says, I think you should continue to pursue your passions. Whether they be in theater, or technology, or in anything else. You are a talented and driven young man, and I know you will succeed in whatever you choose to do.”

He starts the car, and Tony runs his hand over the embossed book cover. It’s _beautiful_ , wonderfully etched under his hand, and he has to bite back tears at the sight of it.

Not for the first time, he wishes Jarvis was his father.

They pull up at school, and Tony scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Thanks,” he says, wishing he could add so much more to it. “Don’t forget tonight’s the play, so I’ll be later. I can call you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jarvis says. “I’ll be there to watch.”

Tony flushes with pride. “I’m just in the lighting booth,” he says. “Nothing special.”

“Regardless,” Jarvis says, smiling. “I’ll be there.”

Tony smiles back and opens the door. “Thanks, J.”

“I’ll see you tonight, young Master Stark.”

The day moves slower than usual, but it does move. Tony fidgets in his chair, and ignores his teachers, and spends the day thinking about the play. About the lighting, and how he can tinker with the spotlights to make them better.

 _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ sits on his desk like a prize. Tony runs his hand over it every few minutes and tries to blink away the tears in his eyes. He’s a Stark. No one should see him cry.

He goes to the lighting booth when school gets out, and idly sets things up with Gemma, his tech partner. There’s a quick rehearsal—more of a last minute run-through—and then the play starts. Tony sits up in his booth, and says the words along with the lead, and tries not to feel as invisible as he is.

At intermission, there’s a commotion downstairs. Tony emerges from his booth with a question for the director, and gets pulled aside by the drama teacher. “You,” she says, eyes wild.

“Me,” Tony says, a little confused.

“You know all the words.”

“What?”

“To the play. You know all the words.” She points at him. “Right?”

“He does,” Gemma says. “He says them along with the lead.”

The drama teacher shoves a costume at him. “Get changed,” she orders. “Our Charlie got sick during the last act, and the understudy is too. You’re our only hope.”

Tony gapes at her, sure he heard wrong. Sure, he _likes_ acting, and he’s generally good at public speaking, but this—this is a whole new level. “I…”

“Please,” she says, desperation in her voice. “I will literally pay you, Tony. Please. If you don’t step in, we’ll have to cancel the play.”

Tony grips the costume tightly, and looks at the assembled group of drama kids. He _does_ know the play. He knows it well. He’s read the script a dozen times, and acted out some of the parts himself to better plan out the stage tech parts. But he’s not an actor. “Mrs. Gilmore—“

“Please,” she says again, almost in tears. “Please, Tony.”

He means to tell her no. He means to say _I’m sorry, I can’t._ But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Okay.”

“ _Thank_ you,” she says, and snaps her fingers. Tony is whisked into makeup and wardrobe before he can blink. He comes out of it a little dazed, a little unsure, eyes wide and heart pounding,

One of the drama kids offers him a smile. “It’s fine,” he says. “You’re good at this. I’ve heard you.”

“Intermission is over,” someone else says. “You ready?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Don’t worry,” a girl says. She puts a hand on his arm and smiles. “You’re gonna kill it.”

The curtain goes up. The audience applauds. Tony waits in the wings for his cue, trying to get himself under control. He can do this. He can do this.

Under the bright lights, a boy laughs. “This is the inventing room!” he proclaims, and that’s it. Tony’s on. It’s showtime

“All the world’s a stage,” he mutters to himself, and takes a deep breath. “All the men and women merely players.”

Then he takes another breath, and steps onto the stage.

And he fucking _kills_ it.

Later, he won’t remember the lines he spoke, or the expressions he made, or the way he moved. What he will remember is the thunderous applause at the end, and the elation that he felt while taking a bow with the cast. He’ll remember what it felt like to shed Tony Stark, and slip into Charlie Bucket like it was a second skin. He’ll remember the pounding of hands on his back, and the delight on Jarvis’s face, and the way that—if only for a moment—he’d felt truly _alive_.

“I want to be an actor,” he says to Jarvis in the car, during the first moment he comes back to himself. “I want—Jarvis, I want to do that again.”

“Then do it,” Jarvis says. He meets Tony’s gaze in the mirror. “Do it, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Be the very best there is.”

Tony is still smiling when he goes into the house, but it drops as soon as he sees his father. Howard is sitting at the kitchen table, fingers drumming on the wood. “You’re late,” he says, as soon as he sees Tony.

“It was the play tonight,” Tony says. “I was a stage tech, remember? I told you and Mom. It’s on the calendar.”

Howard scoffs and waves a hand. “Fantasy nonsense,” he says. “Stick to the real world, kid.”

“They put me in the play,” Tony says. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Howard, but the elation from earlier is still unfurling inside him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t keep it in. “The lead got sick, so they had me go on instead.”

Howard raises an eyebrow. “That so?”

“I did really well,” Tony tells him. “They want me to join the drama club in the fall.”

“No son of mine is going to be in _drama_ club,” Howard says disparagingly. “I won’t hear of it.”

Tony bites his tongue. He knows it’s not worth an argument. “I’m going to bed.”

He takes his backpack upstairs and goes into his room. As soon as the door closes behind him, he drops it onto the bed and pulls out Jarvis’s gift. He runs his hand over the cover and stares at the words embossed on the front.

When he opens it, there’s a post-it note stuck in the front. He hadn’t noticed it before.

_To Tony:_

_“Do what you can, with all you have, wherever you are.”_

_And know that I will always support you._

_-J_

Tony’s vision blurs, and he rubs at his eyes. He takes the book and tucks it into a safe place on his bookshelf. Then he collapses onto his bed, still fully dressed, and drifts off to sleep with the roar of the crowd still ringing in his ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from Theodore Roosevelt.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	2. Do What You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian grabs his arm. “Little prick,” he mutters. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, don’t you?”
> 
> Tony wants to laugh. Of course he doesn’t. It’s spring semester now, and he still wakes up every morning expecting the admissions office to call and say _sorry, we made a mistake._ Everyone here is talented beyond compare, even Killian, and Tony most definitely does not belong next to any of them. He’s not bad at this stuff, but he’s not Juilliard-worthy, and every day makes him feel like more and more of an imposter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not a theater kid, I've never been to Juilliard. Corrections welcome from people smarter than me.

_Do what you can with all you have, wherever you are._

Tony takes a deep breath and looks up at the building in front of him, the glass doors tall and looming. “I made it, Jarvis,” he says, his voice quiet in the early morning air. “I’m here.”

“Keep talking to yourself, people are going to think you’re crazy,” says a voice next to him, and Tony turns to see a red-headed girl studying him. She’s sitting on the stairs, leaning against the railing. He’d been too preoccupied to notice her. “Are you crazy?”

“A little bit,” Tony admits. “For thinking I can do this.”

“Do what? Go up the stairs, or open the door?”

“Be a student here. Drama, Group 40. I’m still waiting for them to take their acceptance back.”

The girl waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “The limelight of Juilliard wears off after a few weeks. Then it’s just school.”

Tony takes a deep breath. “I hope so,” he says. He steps over and offers her a hand. “I’m Tony Stark.”

“Pepper Potts,” she says, shaking it. “I’m a third year here.”

“Drama?”

“Music.” She gestures to her case. “I play the cello.”

“Cool.” He looks up at the building again. “Got any advice?”

Pepper shrugs. “Just listen and do your work, and leave any of that _I’m-hot-shit_ attitude at the door. You’re not. Getting in here doesn’t guarantee anything. It just means you have some talent, or you’re rich. Or both.”

Tony looks up at the building again. “I don’t have an attitude,” he says. “I don’t think, anyway.”

“Good. You’re lightyears ahead of most assholes here.” She smiles at him. “Where are you from?”

“Not too far from here, actually. New York born and bred. You?”

“Small town in Illinois.” She grimaces. “It’s awful there. This is much better.”

“I’ve never been to Illinois,” Tony says truthfully.

Pepper grins. “Good. Don’t waste your time.” She gets up and picks up her case. “I was about to go get breakfast. Want to join me?”

“Sure,” Tony says. “I know a good place not far from here.” He offers a hand. “Need any help?”

“I’ve been carrying this case since I was twelve,” Pepper says with a laugh. “I think I’ve got it.” She tilts her head to the street. “Come on, then. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Pepper turns out to be right, in the end. The shine of Juilliard wears off after a few weeks, and Tony’s routine becomes about keeping his head down and getting his shit done. He does his best to make friends, but at sixteen, he’s one of the youngest here, and the others don’t let him forget it. Aldrich Killian, in particular, seems dead set on making Tony’s life an absolute living hell. Tony has no idea if it’s out of jealousy or what, but every single time he turns around, Killian is there with his _stupid_ smug face, and his _stupid_ smug comments, and his _stupid_ smug boy band that follows him around.

“I hate him,” he complains to Pepper over coffee.

“Who?” She’s reading through his play analysis, scratching things out with a red pen.

“Killian.”

Pepper sighs. She hears this speech at least once a week from him, but Tony doesn’t have anyone else to complain to. “Just ignore him.”

“I can’t ignore him. There’s only seventeen of us in the group. It’s too obvious.”

“Should have done music. There’s lots of us.” She flashes him a smile and pushes her coffee cup at him. “Fuel me.”

“You’ve got legs,” Tony says, pushing it back.

“I’m editing your paper,” she says. “Give me coffee, or fix your atrocious spelling yourself.”

“If I spell atrocious for you, will you pay for it?”

Pepper props her chin in her hand and looks at him. “Sure.”

Tony thinks for a moment, then he gets up and takes her cup. Her laughter follows him all the way to the counter.

* * *

“I have a performance this weekend,” Pepper says. “Not a big one or anything.”

“You’ll do great,” Tony says absently, stepping through a waltz. He trips over his feet and curses softly to himself.

Pepper watches him, then gets up. “You need a partner,” she says, and takes his arms. “What are you doing, waltzing? You’re terrible. Look at me. Head up. Shoulders back. Stop looking at your feet.”

“Where did you learn to _waltz_?” Tony asks, stepping with her. He looks at his feet, then snaps his head back up.

“I was a dancer,” Pepper says. “I did dance and cello until I was twelve. Then I dumped dance for music, but I still remember what to do.” She smacks his head. “Head up, Tony.” He looks up, and she snickers. “Eyes up too.”

“Sorry,” Tony says, blushing. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re adorable,” she says, flashing him a wicked grin. “Like a little puppy. It’s cute.”

Tony blushes even harder. “Stop it, Pep.”

They finish the dance and step away from each other. “Thanks,” Tony says, and he goes to get a drink of water. “I appreciate it.”

“I want you to come to my performance,” Pepper says.

Tony drinks his water. “Okay.”

“As my date.”

He splutters a little bit at that, and shakes his head. “ _What_?”

“My date,” Pepper says. “I’m asking you on a date. Well, actually, I’m asking you to my recital. And then afterwards we can go on a real date.” She smiles at him. “You in?”

“I, uh…” Tony looks at her. She’s sitting on the table now, legs primly crossed in her skirt, and with an expectant expression on her face. Only her hands, tightly gripping the table, show any sign of nervousness at all.

He’s never really thought about dating her. She’s pretty, sure, conventionally attractive in every sense of the word. But she’s also one of his closest friends, and he doesn’t want to mess with that. He likes her too much.

But he doesn’t want to disappoint her either, so he just says, “It’s a date,” and she beams at him.

* * *

It’s stage combat day, and despite his best efforts, Tony ends up paired with Killian. He tries not to let his hatred show.

“So,” Killian says as they rearrange the room. “You’re dating Potts now?”

“Yeah.” Tony moves a desk. “What of it?”

“Just think she’s dating down, that’s all.”

Privately, Tony agrees. He’s not really a catch, all things considered. About the only thing he has going for him is his last name. But he just shrugs and says, “Whatever.”

“Seriously,” Killian says. “What does she even see in you?”

“It helps that I’m not a raging egotistical asshole,” Tony says, and he turns to listen as the professor starts talking.

Killian grabs his arm. “Little prick,” he mutters. “You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, don’t you?”

Tony wants to laugh. Of course he doesn’t. It’s spring semester now, and he still wakes up every morning expecting the admissions office to call and say _sorry, we made a mistake._ Everyone here is talented beyond compare, even Killian, and Tony most definitely does not belong next to any of them. He’s not bad at this stuff, but he’s not Juilliard-worthy, and every day makes him feel like more and more of an imposter.

But he can’t let Killian know the depths of his insecurities. So he just yanks his arm away and says, “Leave me alone.”

Not his best comeback, but it has the intended effect. Killian leaves him alone until they start practicing. Despite the explicit instructions and safety gear, Tony still gets jabbed with the stage swords more often than is really warranted. He bites back the tears of pain and soldiers on.

* * *

Tony comes back home for the summer break. Howard keeps his distance, and his mother is her usual absent self. Jarvis is the only one really happy to see him. Tony spends his time in his room, texting Pepper and working on his homework.

One morning, Tony goes downstairs to see a disassembled… _something_ spread over the table, and his father making angry noises at it. Tony looks over his shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Coffee maker,” Howard says. “Quit working. I’m not sure why. All the pieces are fine.”

Tony glances around the table. “That’s broken,” he says, pointing to a small motor.

“What? No it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is.” Tony picks it up to show him. “Look. There’s a component burnt out there.”

Howard stares at it for a moment. Then a slow grin unfurls over his face. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says, and claps Tony on the back. “Guess you really are my son, huh?”

Tony feels a warmth bloom in his chest, and he grins at his dad, soaking up the praise. “Want help putting it back together?”

“Sure,” Howard says. Then he pauses before adding, “Toaster’s broken too.”

That’s how Tony ends up spending the day elbow deep in motors and wires, fixing machines and making them work again. He _likes_ this, he realizes. Or rather, re-realizes. He always has liked building and creating things. It’s just that he likes acting more.

The summer seems to go easier, after that. Howard is a little less distant, and Tony is a little less cold to him, and the result ends up being that he returns to Juilliard in the fall in a little better spirits than when he left.

Pepper shows up two weeks later, fresh from an overseas tour. “Hey you,” she says, folding herself into his arms. She’s still taller than he is, but he’s grown a few inches, and he’s gaining on her. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Tony says, holding her tightly. “I’m really glad you’re back.”

* * *

Tony is less glad that Killian’s back, and more hell-bent than ever on making Tony’s life miserable. He gets petty about it too, booking practice rooms early and auditioning for the same parts during class performances.

“Hey,” he says one day. “You still dating Potts?”

“Yes,” Tony says tiredly. “I’m still dating her. Fuck off, would you?”

He doesn’t. He starts showing up places instead. He’s not following Tony, but he’s just…there. Constantly. No matter where Tony takes Pepper, Killian is bound to show up.

“It’s getting creepy,” Tony says to her one night. She’s laying in bed, and he’s studying at her desk. “Seriously. How does he know?”

“You think way too much about this guy,” she says. “Move the light, will you?”

Tony moves the light. “I think he likes you.”

She snorts. “Are you _just_ picking up on that?”

“What do you think of him?”

“I think you think too much about him.” Pepper rolls over. “Drop it, Tony. He’s just trying to get under your skin, and you’re letting him.”

“I can’t help it,” Tony says. “I hate him.”

“I _know_ that,” she says. “The trick is to stop letting _him_ know that. He only does this shit because it gets to you.”

“I don’t know how to _not_ let him in.” Tony rubs his face and sighs “That’s always been my problem.”

It’s not that he’s thin-skinned—God knows you couldn’t be in a place or a profession like this. It’s just that Killian has a nasty knack for picking at Tony’s insecurities, and Tony has a hard time hiding his reactions.

“You’re in acting school,” Pepper says. “So act. Pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

“That’s your advice? Fake it ’til you make it?”

“What else do you want me to say? You have to deal with him for the next two and a half years. You might as well give it a try.” She sounds exasperated now, and Tony regrets opening his mouth in the first place. “Come to bed, or get out of my room, Tony. I have a test in the morning and I need to sleep.”

He crawls into bed beside her, and she wraps an arm around his waist. “You’re a talented guy,” she mutters in his ear. “Stop telling yourself otherwise.”

“Okay,” Tony mutters back, and he listens to her fall asleep. He spends the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, and thinking that Pepper doesn’t really understand the problem at all. Tony _knows_ he’s a talented guy. The trick is convincing the rest of his brain to believe the same. _And it doesn’t help when my own personal devil tries to tell me otherwise every damn day._

Fucking Killian. This guy’s gonna be the death of him.

* * *

Tony does his best over the next weeks, and tries to project an air of confidence that he certainly doesn’t feel. He does his work, and hangs out with Pepper, and tries to ignore every jab Killian directs at him.

_Talentless._

_Loser._

_Worthless._

He never says them where anyone else can overhear, and he never lets a professor catch him. Sometimes Tony wonders if he’s imagining it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s assigned his insecurities to something else. Maybe he’s just hearing that little voice in the back of his mind, and it’s telling—

 _Stop it,_ he thinks to himself. _It’s happening. You’re not making this up._

Tony does his best to follow Pepper’s advice, and act like it doesn’t bother him. It’s not anything he hasn’t whispered to himself in the dead of night before. Insecurity is nothing new to him.

Still. It’s hard to shake.

He calls Jarvis early one morning, after waking up out of a nightmare in a cold sweat. “I’m having a hard time,” he admits.

“I have to run an errand for your father Saturday morning,” Jarvis says. “Would you like to get breakfast? I can spare a few extra hours.”

“I’d _love_ that,” Tony says, grateful as hell. “Yes, Jarvis. _Thank_ you.”

* * *

Breakfast with Jarvis helps. He’s a better listener than Pepper is—less preoccupied with his own problems, and he believes Tony immediately about Killian.

“Confidence has always been your problem,” he says, pouring Tony another orange juice. Ever the butler. “You are an exceedingly talented young man. I only wish that you could see what I see so easily.”

“I’m trying,” Tony says. “Pepper told me to just fake it.”

“A little self-doubt is never a bad thing,” Jarvis says. “A complete lack of it…well, it leads to people like your unsavory friend. The problem is when you let that self-doubt spiral out of control.” He points a fork at Tony. “Do you have a notebook?”

“What, like a paper and pencil one? I don’t know. I use computers.”

“I’ll get you one.” Jarvis takes a bite. “Will you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“At the end of each day, I want you to write down something you did well that day, or something good that happened. Just one thing, every single day. It can be small, or big. But I want a list of them. And when you come home for spring break, I want to see it.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “Why?”

“Humor me,” Jarvis says, and he smiles at Tony. “More juice?”

* * *

Jarvis sends him a notebook—a really nice one, it looks like a book—Tony does as he’s told. He makes a list. Some days are easier than others to find something, but he manages.

He starts to see the point at thirty days in, when he crashes into his dorm room after a particularly bad day. He’d fought with Pepper over something stupid, and bombed a test, and lost a lead part to Killian. All in all, it had been one of the most massively sucky days of his life.

Tony stares at the ceiling, then rolls over and grabs his notebook. He flips through the pages and taps his pencil against his lips, trying to think of _anything_ good that happened today.

 _Coffee was discounted,_ he finally writes, because nothing else comes to mind.

Then he skims the rest of the list. _A on a test. Beat Killian in improv competition. Pepper surprised me for lunch with sandwiches. Dad called, and we actually talked about me for once. Mom sent me a card. Made a friend on the subway. Learned to play a song on the piano, practicing it for Pep’s birthday._

He flips through all of them, smiling as he reads them, and then skims through the blank pages. Line after line, all of them a potential for something good.

On the inside of the back cover is a note from Jarvis, written in his distinct, blocky handwriting.

_“Every situation in life is temporary. So, when life is good, make sure you enjoy and receive it fully._

_And when life is not so good, remember that it will not last forever and better days are on the way.”_

_Keep your head up, Tony. I’m proud of you._

_-J_

“Thanks, J,” Tony says, and he closes the book.

* * *

The semester passes. Tony keeps stumbling through, doing his best. He writes in his notebook every night, and rereads it when he needs a boost. It grounds him. Keeps him in the moment. Keeps him going.

Which he needs, because his other source of comfort is starting to get distant. Cold, almost. Tony is sure it’s because of him, but the harder he tries to hold onto Pepper, the harder she seems to pull away. The fights get louder, and more trivial, and more frequent.

“Is there something wrong between us?” he finally asks her one night. They’re laying in bed together, an ocean of distance between them.

She doesn’t answer for a long time, and he almost repeats the question when she finally says, “I think we should break up.”

Tony blinks, then sits up. “Why?”

She sighs. “I just…I need a change, Tony. I’m a fourth year now, and things are getting really intense for me. I can’t juggle everything.”

“But...I love you,” Tony says. His hands are shaking. “Pepper, you’re my best friend.”

“We can still be friends,” she says, and she sits up to look at him. “But I need a break.”

“From what?”

“From you.” She sighs. “Tony, I love you too, but you’re getting hard to be around. I know you’re stressed, and I know Killian keeps bothering you. I know you have a hard time with yourself. But I’m not your therapist, okay? I can’t deal with your problems and mine. Not right now. I have my graduate recital coming up, and I’m auditioning for the New York Philharmonic. I just…” She waves a hand. “I love you, but I can’t do it all. I’m not superhuman.”

Tony feels the burn of tears starting in his eyes, and he clenches his fists. “I wasn’t aware I was such a burden to you,” he says, his voice bitter.

“Tony, stop it. Don’t do that self-pity bullshit. This is part of the problem.”

He gets out of bed and drags his clothes on. Pepper sits up. “Tony. You can stay the night, I’m not kicking you out.”

“I need to go,” he says. “I’ll leave my key on the table.”

“Tony!”

He looks around at his various things, remnants of a life they were slowly building together. A couple of his favorite books. His sweatshirt. His toothbrush in her bathroom.

He picks up _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ and tucks it under his arm. “I don’t want the rest of this,” he says. “I don’t care what you do with it.”

“You’re being a child,” she tells him. “Would you please sit down so we can talk about this?”

Tony turns away from her so she won’t see the tears in his eyes. _Hide it. Hide it._

“Bye,” he manages, and he walks out the front door.

* * *

He tells his professors that he has the flu, and then spends the rest of the week in bed. One of his classmates drops off the homework for him. Tony doesn’t do any of it. He cocoons himself in blankets and loses himself in the rhythms of Shakespeare, and tries to pretend that this doesn’t hurt as badly as it does.

Pepper drops his stuff off. Tony takes it quietly and does his best to not let her see him cry. This is exactly why he didn’t want to date her.

“We can still be friends,” she tells him.

He looks her in the eye for the first time and shakes his head. “Not right now.”

“Fine,” she says, sounding hurt for the first time. “Call me when you get over yourself, then.”

She leaves. Tony goes back to bed.

* * *

“Pepper broke up with me.”

Jarvis sighs. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She said I’m too clingy. And she’s tired of being my therapist.”

“You are both young,” Jarvis says. “I suspect there’s more to it than what she’s saying. I wouldn’t be too hard on her if I were you. Sometimes people lash out in cruelty so they don’t have to face their own problems.”

Tears drip from Tony’s eyes, splashing onto the covers. “Jarvis, it _hurts_.”

“It will,” he says. “For a long time. There’s nothing I can do about it, as much as I wish I could. People create wounds when they leave, and it takes a long time for that wound to become a scar.”

“I can’t think of anything to put in my notebook.”

“So read what’s already there. Remind yourself of happier days, and remember that they will come back again.”

Tony swallows and stares out at the darkness. It’s almost midnight, he realizes. “Why are you still awake?”

“You called me,” Jarvis says simply. “I will always answer when you call.”

Tony’s breath catches on a sob. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my dear boy.” There’s a pause, and then, “I have Sunday off. Would you like to get breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, picking at his comforter. “Yeah, J. I’d like that a lot.”

* * *

Tony finishes his second year in a fog. It’s noticeable enough that his favorite professor pulls him aside after their last class. “Stark,” she says, eyes warm but voice firm. “I know you had a hard time this year. But you need to pull yourself together. Third year is not easy, and I don’t want to see you fail.”

“I’ll do better,” Tony promises. “I just…I need time to get my head straight.”

“You’ve got the summer,” she says. “I want to see you back here in the fall, ready to go.”

“I will. I swear.”

“Good boy.” She smiles at him. “You’re so talented, Tony. Don’t let everything you’ve built come crashing down from a broken heart.”

It’s funny, because everything he built here has been centered on Pepper. The steady foundation under his precarious house of cards. He spent the semester gathering the pieces of himself after she left. He doesn’t know how to put them back together without her.

But he can’t tell her that, so he smiles and nods and promises to do better.

Jarvis is waiting for him outside his dorm room. “Ready to go home?”

Tony sees Killian across the street. He’s leaning against the wall and smirking at him. Then he waves, casual as anything, and walks off.

“Yeah,” Tony says, clenching his jaw. “Get me out of here.”

* * *

He spends this summer like he did the last one, lost in a sea of screwdrivers and nuts and bolts and engine parts. He helps his dad rebuild an old Honda CB750-4 from the ground up, and the feeling he gets when the engine finally turns over correctly is almost as heady as applause after a show.

“You’re really good at this,” Howard says. “You know engines almost better than I do.”

“They’re easy,” Tony says. “Easier than people.”

“They are,” Howard agrees. He takes a sip from his flask, then holds it out to Tony. “Drink.”

Tony takes it. He drinks. The alcohol warms him down to his bones, and he can suddenly see the appeal of it. Can see why his dad likes it. They trade the flask back and forth. There’s a numbness to him now, and he suddenly finds the memories of Pepper not as sharp as they were an hour ago.

“I know you had a rough year at school,” Howard says.

Tony is a little surprised. His relationship with his father is better, but Jarvis was the still person Tony called for things. He didn’t know his father knew _anything_ about his time at school. “My girlfriend dumped me.”

“If you want,” Howard says, “you can come work for me at Stark Industries. I’d be happy to have you. I know some of my guys who would be happy to have you.”

It’s tempting, almost. No more Killian, no more Pepper. Just machines, and machines are so much easier than people.

He shakes his head. “I can’t, Dad. I put in a lot of work already. I really want this.”

“Okay,” Howard says, and he sounds disappointed. “Well. Offer is always open.”

Tony hands him the flask. “Thanks,” he says.

There’s a moment where his father looks like he might say something else. Like something is teetering on the tip of his tongue. Then he shakes his head and says, “Pass me that wrench,” and they go back to fixing the bike.

* * *

Third year starts off with a welcome back party. It’s always a grand affair—God knows theater kids can put on a show—and everyone dresses to the nines. Tony puts on his best suit, and ties his own tie, and goes into it alone.

Last year he’d brought Pepper. They’d left early, and gone up to the roof. He’d snuck some peach schnapps in his jacket pocket, and they’d gotten drunk and stayed up there all night, sleeping under the brilliant city lights.

He shakes off the memory. He can do this. He doesn’t need her.

Tony wanders the room. He exchanges pleasantries with classmates, and flirts with the bartender at the open bar. She doesn’t give him alcohol, but she does pretend not to see when he dumps a mini vodka into his lemonade. He slips her a ten for it.

He’s sipping his drink and enjoying the burn of the vodka when he sees Pepper, looking absolutely beautiful in a sleek and sparkly blue gown. She’s stunning, and he steps behind a pillar so she doesn’t directly see him. There’s a smile on her face, and her hair is done up in a gorgeous way, and her date—

_Killian?_

It is. She’s got a black purse dangling from one arm, and Killian is on her other. He radiates confidence and power like nothing Tony’s ever seen, strolling through the crowd with such a commanding presence that everyone turns to look. He meets Tony’s eyes from across the room, and smirks as he sees how Tony is half-hidden behind the pillar. Then he tilts his head towards Pepper.

No words are exchanged. No words are needed. Killian says it all with that simple motion.

_I win._

Tony grits his teeth and considers turning around. He could leave. He could walk out of this party and pack his bags and go home. Tell his father he wants to work for him instead. Build engines to life instead of characters. It would certainly be easier. Engines break, but they can be fixed. People…people are so much harder to put back together. People are painful. _Being_ a person is painful, and this is the worst it’s ever been.

He almost does it. His right foot turns towards the door, and he very nearly follows it with the rest of him. It would be _so easy_.

But then he thinks about Jarvis, and how he would look if Tony showed up in the middle of the semester to tell him he quit. There’d be no unkind words, but he’d be _disappointed_. And God help him, but Tony can’t face that. He can’t disappoint Jarvis.

He remembers what Pepper said to him that one night. _You’re in acting school. Act._

So Tony takes a deep breath and sheds himself, like he did that very first time he stepped on stage. He drops Tony Stark without a second glance and slips into someone braver. Stronger. More suave. He feels it settle around him like a suit of armor, and he holds it closely. Then he raises his glass to Killian with a carefully crafted smirk that says, _See if I fucking care._

Killian blinks in surprised, deprived of his moment. His face twists a little, and he turns away from Tony.

 _Fake it til you make it,_ Tony thinks, and he very nearly starts laughing. _Well, you can thank your girlfriend for that one, asshole._

* * *

It’s easier, after that first time. Tony finds himself slipping into character more and more frequently. Not just when Killian is around, but all the time. He does it at the coffee shop, and during classes, and whenever he’s flirting his way through a bar. It really is like armor, he thinks, and he marvels at how much _less_ everything hurts when it’s not his heart taking the bullets.

“You look like you’re doing much better this year,” his favorite professor tells him.

“I am,” Tony says. _All thanks to my healthy coping mechanisms of alcohol and emotional repression._ His father’s son, through and through.

Third year slips by in a breeze, and then it’s Tony’s last year. Group 40 is tasked with putting on Hamlet for their fourth-year production. “You are all welcome to audition for the lead,” the professor tells them, and Killian flashes Tony with a glare.

“ _I’m_ playing Hamlet,” he says after class, cornering Tony in the hallway. “So don’t even try out, you little prick.”

“In your dreams,” Tony says, and he keeps walking.

Killian pushes him against the wall. “I mean it, Stark.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Tony snarls. “You can’t stop me. I have every right, and I sure as hell would be better at it than you anyway.” He smirks. “Is that what you’re worried about? That I’m better than you?”

“In your dreams,” Killian counters. “You’re not better than me. You’re second-rate. You already lost your girlfriend to me, you really want to lose this too?”

Armor. He’s in his armor, and it doesn’t hurt. It _doesn’t_.

Tony pushes Killian away. “Pepper makes her own choices,” he says, proud of how steady his voice stays. “She wasn’t mine to keep any more than she’s yours.”

Killian smirks. “Is that what you tell yourself to feel better? Is that how you get over losing her to a real man?”

“Does pretending you’re a real man help you sleep at night?” Tony ducks out of reach. “I’m auditioning, Killian. I don’t give a shit what you think about it. I don’t give a shit about you and Pepper, either. I’m better off without her, and one of these days she’s going to come to her senses, see you for the little mealworm that you are, and crush you under her heel.” He lets out a cruel laugh. “I can’t wait for that day to come. I didn’t break when she left, but you?” He pokes a finger in Killian’s chest. “You’re going to fucking _shatter_.”

He turns and walks away. No point in doing a mic drop if the other person manages to get a last word in.

The lie feels good on his lips. He had broke when Pepper left. He’d broken hard. But he likes how it sounds to say otherwise.

_Is it lying, or is it acting?_

“I don’t know,” he mutters to the empty hallway. “Is there a goddamn difference?”

* * *

He gets the part, and all the late nights staying up and practicing are worth the stunned and furious expression on Killian’s face. Even better is Jarvis’s delighted words when Tony calls him with the news. “I always knew you could do it,” he says. “I can’t wait to see it. You’ll make a wonderful Hamlet.”

“You’ll come see it, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tony.”

* * *

“All the world’s a stage,” Tony says to himself, mentally preparing to go on. “All the men and women merely players.”

“I think that’s the wrong play,” replies a soft voice, and he spins around to see Pepper standing behind him.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, suddenly feeling ridiculous in his Hamlet outfit. “You can’t be backstage.”

“I’m here for Killian,” she says, and his heart twists at the words. “But I wanted to wish you luck.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks, I guess.”

“You deserve this,” she says, pointing to the stage. Tony can hear the murmur of the crowd getting settled. “You deserve _everything_.”

Tony steels himself in his armor and tries his cockiest smile. “I know, Pep. I’m very talented.”

She sees right through him. She always has.

“Love you,” she murmurs, and she kisses his cheek. “Break a leg.”

The lights dim. The curtain goes up. Tony pulls Hamlet on like a jacket, hiding in the fabric of his character, and loses himself to the melancholy prince of Denmark.

* * *

Graduation is a long affair, full of speeches and dramatics and handshakes. Tony accepts the Michel and Suria Saint-Denis Prize with a smile, and tries to keep himself from smirking in Killian’s face. Pepper is on his arm, but Tony’s too elated to dwell on that, other than to note that she doesn’t look very happy.

Even his father is there, and Tony can hardly believe it when his father extends a hand. “Well done,” he murmurs, a little awkward.

Tony shakes it. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re very good,” he says, gesturing to the award. “You deserve that. I saw your play.”

“Thanks,” Tony says, a little floored. He’d invited his parents, but he wasn’t sure if they’d shown up. Jarvis had. That was enough for him.

Nothing more is said between them, and Tony tucks the moment away to examine later.

At home, Jarvis holds Tony back for a moment and hands him something. “For you,” he says. “Congratulations. I always knew you could do it.”

It’s a new notebook. Leather-bound, and thick, and beautiful. “Thanks,” Tony says. “But I feel like I should get you something. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I was happy to be there for you,” Jarvis says. “And I always will be.” He points at the notebook. “Fill that up with good things for me. One a day.”

“I promise,” Tony says, and he wraps Jarvis in a hug. “I love you, man.”

“I love you as well.” Jarvis hugs him back. “I would be proud to have a son like you.”

Tony opens the notebook later, searching for the quote he knows is in there. Sure enough, in the middle of the notebook, there’s a beautifully styled page with Jarvis’s blocky handwriting.

_"Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage._

_If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy."_

_You can do this, Tony. I’m with you all the way._

_-J_

“I _can_ do this,” Tony says, and he sets the notebook on top of his other one. “Just you watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	3. With All You Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he digs up the armor again, shelters himself inside, and starts dividing his emotions. Puts them into boxes, and organizes them on a shelf in his mind. The safe ones stay at the forefront, to be pulled out and examined as needed. The others—Pepper, his father, the real Tony Stark—get shoved into the back, to be covered with dust and never examined again. Then he pulls his armor tighter, and sets his jaw. He can do this. Stark men are made of iron, and iron is not so easily broken.

Tony quickly learns that graduating at the top of his class from Juilliard does not necessarily mean anything in the professional world.

Sure, it opens doors for him, and looks good on his resume. But he’s just one of many struggling actors trying to make it big, and he’s not the only one with a fancy degree. Six months after graduation, Tony is still spending his days auditioning for bit parts, and getting rejected for all of them. It wears on him. Tears at his armor.

So he starts spending his nights drinking. Just a little at first, and then more. He finds he likes the soothing burn of alcohol. He always has, but it’s better now. He likes the way it numbs the rejections, quiets his anxieties for a moment. Likes the way it makes the world easier to bear.

“You look like hell,” Pepper tells him one night. He runs into her by accident while stumbling into his third bar. She takes one look at him, then puts him in a chair and hands him a glass of water.

“What do you care?” he retorts angrily, shoving it aside. “You’re not my girlfriend, remember? You want to baby someone, go find Killian.”

He feels bad for yelling like this, but the taste of whiskey in his mouth makes the words slide out, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

Pepper rolls her eyes. “I dumped him,” she says. “You were right. He’s mean, and vindictive, and I should have believed you from the start.”

“Yeah,” he says, signaling the bartender, and trying to ignore the leaping in his heart. “You fucking should have.”

“I’m sorry,” Pepper says. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t have myself together that year either. I just as much of a mess as you were. Probably even more so.”

“Jarvis said I shouldn’t blame you for it.” He drinks his whiskey in a single gulp and slams the glass down. “He said you were probably projecting onto me.”

“I was,” she admits. “It was cruel of me to do that to you.”

“Yeah, well.” He drops a bill on the bar top and grabs his jacket. “I’m over it.”

He storms out, leaving her behind. He pretends he doesn’t see her devastated expression.

 _I do not need you,_ he thinks, stumbling his way down the street. _I can do this alone._

* * *

Tony turns twenty-one that spring, seated in a bar with his hand firmly around a glass. He notes the time on the clock and takes a sip. “Happy fucking birthday,” he mutters. _At least I don’t have to use my fake ID anymore._

“How old?”

He turns his head. The guy next to him is leaning against the bar, casually dressed, a tired expression on his face. He’s got dark curly hair, and pair of glasses that make him look older than he probably is.

“I’m twenty-one,” Tony says, raising his hand to the bartender.

“Happy birthday.” The bartender slips him another one, and the guy puts a bill down. “That’s on me,” he says. “Least I can do.”

“Appreciate it.” Tony takes a sip. “I’m Tony.”

The guy smiles. “I’m Bruce,” he says, offering a hand. “So what circumstances bring you here?”

“Isn’t this what people do when they turn twenty-one?”

“They’re not usually alone,” Bruce says.

Tony shrugs. He’d been offered company, first from his parents, then from Jarvis. Even Pepper had called him, but he’d let the phone ring. “I’m not interested in a party. I just want to relax.”

“Fair enough,” Bruce says, and he picks up his own drink. “So what do you do?”

“Struggling actor. You?”

“Set design for a local theater, actually. They do smaller productions.” He studies Tony. “Struggling, huh? You been able to land a part yet?”

Tony shakes his head.

“You want a job?”

“What?”

Bruce shrugs. “I need a couple extra hands. I’ve been looking around. It’s not a part in a play, but it’s at least in a theater. You any good with tools?”

“I don’t need your charity,” Tony snaps.

“It’s not charity if I pay you for it.”

Tony thinks about that for a second. Then he finally takes a drink. “I’m good with tools.”

“Great.” Bruce slides him a card. “This is my number. We’re between Madison and 8th. Be there tomorrow at seven.”

“AM?”

“Yep.” He grins at Tony. “Too early?”

“I’ll deal.” Tony looks at the card. “Green Room Studios? I’ve heard of that.”

“Hey, look at that. We’re coming up in the world.” He claps a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, kid. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

Construction work is nice, actually. Tony likes the physicality of it. Likes building things with his bare hands. He likes Bruce too. The guy’s a good boss, and the crew is likable, and all in all, Tony’s found worse ways to make money. It’s not what he excepted, but it’s decent.

Six months after he starts working for Bruce, his phone rings. He’s up in the rafters, precariously balanced on a beam, and it takes him a moment to work it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

“Tony,” Jarvis says.

Tony beams. “Hey, man! What’s up?”

“Tony,” Jarvis says again, and his voice is unusually somber. “There’s been an accident.”

He feels the blood drain from his face. “ _What_?”

“Your parents were in a car accident,” he says. “A bad one. Your mother is in the hospital.”

His vision narrows, and he grips the beam tightly under one hand, suddenly aware of how high up he is. “Dad?” he manages, forcing the word out through the lump in his throat.

There’s a pause, and then Jarvis says, “I’m so sorry, Tony.”

Tears blur his vision, and he shakes his head. “ _No_.”

“I’m coming to pick you up,” Jarvis says. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Where are you?”

Tony’s breath is coming in gasps. “Work,” he finally gets out. “I’m at work.”

“I’ll be there.” Jarvis hangs up.

Bruce climbs up the ladder. “Hey Tony, I need…” He trails off as he sees Tony’s face. “Hey. You okay?”

Tony scrambles to his feet. “I gotta go, Bruce.”

“What happened?”

“My parents.” Bruce goes down the ladder, and Tony follows him. “They were in a car accident. My dad…”

The tears come then, hot and choking, and Tony buries his face in his hands. He can’t get the rest out.

“Shit,” Bruce murmurs. He pulls Tony into a hug. “I’m sorry, Tony. I’m so sorry.”

“Jarvis is coming to get me,” Tony says when he can speak again. “I have to go.”

“Go. Take all the time you need.”

Tony goes. Jarvis picks him up, and they haul ass to the hospital, but it’s not fast enough. His mother dies before they can get there. Tony arrives in time to hold her cold hand, and watch them cover her face. The doctor says things at them, something about _massive swelling_ and _internal bleeding_ and _wouldn’t have survived._

Tony leaves her room and collapses to his knees in the hallway. He’s shattering hard, crumbling into a million pieces, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He can’t think straight long enough to get into another character. He doesn’t have a drink to numb the shock. He doesn’t have his armor on. He is just Tony Stark, bare and vulnerable, and he’d forgotten how much it _hurts_ to be Tony Stark.

“Hey,” Jarvis says, and a strong pair of arms wrap around him. “I’m here.”

“They’re dead,” he chokes, leaning into Jarvis. “They’re _dead_ , Jarvis.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and Tony feels tears drop onto his arm. “I know.”

* * *

The funeral is a big affair., courtesy of Stark Industries. Tony doesn’t want any part of it. Doesn’t want his grief to be public. He wants to find a bar and drink until he can’t think anymore.

Pepper shows up, dressed in black and beautiful as ever. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and Tony accepts her hug. “Please call me. I hate to think of you being alone.”

“I will,” he lies.

There’s a eulogy delivered by one of his father’s coworkers, and then a priest says some bullshit he doesn’t listen to, and then that’s it. He’s stepping up to his parents’ grave with a fistful of dirt and tears in his eyes. “Bye Mom,” he mutters, holding his hand out. “Bye, Dad.”

He always wished Jarvis could be his father, but those wishes all feel like a betrayal now. For all of the awful moments, Tony does have good memories of Howard. Disassembling the bike in the garage. The weekend they rewired the whole house for fun. The hours they spent building Tony a model train set from scratch. The summer day spent taking apart kitchen appliances.

Howard didn’t approve of Tony’s school of choice, or his profession, but he’d still let Tony tinker with him in the garage on breaks, and drank whiskey with him after dinner, and every once in a blue moon, Tony would catch him looking his way with a pleased expression. Like maybe somewhere underneath that rough exterior, he really was proud of his son.

“Bye, Dad,” Tony says again, putting his hand on the tombstone. “I’m sorry.”

He walks away after that, back to the line of cars. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

Jarvis is waiting for him, like he always is. “Anywhere you’d like to go?”

“I don’t know.” Tony rubs his eyes. “Anywhere but here.”

Jarvis hesitates, and says, “Home?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. He gets in the backseat. “Home.”

* * *

Tony goes back to work two weeks later. The guys are nicer than usual, sympathetic, treating him like he’s made of glass. He hates it. He just wants it to be normal.

So he digs up the armor again, shelters himself inside, and starts dividing his emotions. Puts them into boxes, and organizes them on a shelf in his mind. The safe ones stay at the forefront, to be pulled out and examined as needed. The others—Pepper, his father, the real Tony Stark—get shoved into the back, to be covered with dust and never examined again. Then he pulls his armor tighter, and sets his jaw. He can do this. Stark men are made of iron, and iron is not so easily broken.

Eventually, they fall back into their usual rhythm. Tony keeps the act up anyway. He’d been caught off guard with their deaths, and he never wants that to happen again. It’s so much easier to not be the real Tony Stark.

He’s working on a set one day when there’s a commotion on stage. He only catches the end of it, but he gets there just in time to hear a door slam and the faint strains of someone yelling, “I cannot continue to work with you amateurs!”

Tony snorts and gets back to work. _Little prick. I’d give anything for that job._

Apparently the theater gods hear this, because the producer is suddenly pointing at him. “You!”

Tony looks around. “Uh, me?”

“Yes, you!” The guy gets on stage and walks over. “I need you to stand in and read lines.”

“What?”

A script is shoved in his hands. “Read lines,” the guy repeats, and he gestures to the other lead, a girl with red hair. Tony forces back memories of Pepper. “Natasha needs to practice this scene, and the understudy quit last night, and I don’t have anyone else to help.” He holds out his hands pleadingly. “It’ll take like, half an hour. And I’ll bring you coffee tomorrow. And possibly fall down and worship at your feet right now. I’m a very desperate person. Please say yes.”

Tony’s done worse for free coffee, so he shrugs and takes the script. “Alright.”

Natasha smiles at him as he steps up. “Long story short,” she says, “the play is called _Bent, Not Broken_. It’s about a guy who disappears while recovering from a war injury, and he leaves his girlfriend a bunch of letters at all their favorite dating spots to explain why.”

“Sounds depressing,” Tony says, flipping through the script.

“A bit, yeah. Happy ending though.” She tells him the page number. “You’re Jack, I’m Ellen. Don’t worry about acting or anything, just read the lines. I’m working on my memorization.” She steps back on her mark and shakes her hands out. “Start from the top, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Tony says, and he starts reading. “Dear Ellen, I don’t think I ever told you the story of how I found my dog…”

It’s been a long time since he’s done this. But it comes back to him easily, and he ends up getting really into it. He likes the way Jack is written—a little melancholy, a little self-deprecating, funny as hell. He actually makes Natasha laugh to the point where she breaks character, and has to bend over and wheeze for a few moments.

“Uh,” the producer says, coming on stage.

Tony turns to him, still a little lost in the story. He clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“You’re _amazing_ ,” the guy says. “Like, absolutely _holy-shit-what-the-hell_ amazing.”

“Thanks,” Tony says. “Is, uh, is that all you needed?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re hired.”

“I wasn’t auditioning,” Tony says.

“I wasn’t asking.” The guy holds out his hand. “I’m Clint Barton. I wrote this play. I’m also directing and producing and basically doing everything else.” He grins. It’s a little manic.

“That sounds complicated.”

“It’s terrifically complicated. I probably won’t survive.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Anyway. I want you to be in it.”

“I also want you to be in it,” Natasha says. “Trust me, you are way better than the asshole who stormed out of here a moment ago.”

Tony looks back and forth between the two of them. “Are you sure?”

“Am I _sure_?” Clint looks scandalized. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He grabs Tony’s shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re brilliant. You were _born_ to play this part…” He trails off. “What’s your name?”

“Tony.”

“You were _born_ to play this part, Tony.” Clint looks him in the eye. “You _are_ Jack Rider.”

Natasha snickers. “You are _so_ dramatic,” she tells him, and pries his hands off Tony’s shoulders. “Let the poor boy go.”

Clint messes his hair again. “So? You in?”

Tony grins. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes. Yes, I’m in.” He turns around. “Bruce!”

Bruce sticks his head out of the rafters. “Yeah?”

“I quit,” Tony tells him. “I just got a part.”

“Cool,” Bruce says. “Break a leg.”

“Definitely in,” Tony says, turning back to Clint. There’s a feeling of joy spreading through his chest, and he has to clench his fists to keep himself from jumping up and down.

Clint gets him a rehearsal schedule, and his own script, and a couple things to sign. Natasha spends the rest of the time walking him through the play. It’s not a long one, but there’s a lot to it. Dialogue heavy, plenty of room for acting. The exact kind of thing Tony likes.

“Who was the guy that left?” Tony asks later, when he’s shrugging on his jacket.

Natasha shrugs. “Some smug rich kid who thinks he’s hot shit with his Juilliard degree. Aldrich or something.”

“Aldrich _Killian_?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

Tony starts laughing. He laughs so hard that he gets lightheaded and has to sit down on the stage. “Yes,” he finally gasps out. “I know him.”

Aldrich Fucking Killian. Tony would pay cash money to see his face when he finds out who his replacement is.

* * *

_Bent, Not Broken_ officially opens to a full theater, thanks to some excellent social media marketing by Clint, and the night goes perfectly. Natasha is brilliant as Ellen, and Tony privately thinks that he’s been spoiled for any other leading lady. He might have the fancy degree, but she _gets_ the character, and it’s amazing to watch her work.

Their limited run closes after ten previews and twenty-five performances, the last one packed to the point where it’s standing room only. Tony and Nat take a bow to thunderous applause. Tony spots Jarvis in the front row, beaming and clapping along with the rest of them. Pepper is next to him—Tony had finally invited her after Jarvis had convinced him to—and she’s clapping as well, expression so proud and loving that he has to look away.

Clint greets them backstage and throws his arms around both of them. “I owe you guys _everything_ ,” he says, blue eyes shining with tears. “Seriously. This has been amazing, and I’d work with you guys again any day.”

“Same,” Tony says. “For both of you.”

Jarvis and Pepper find him out front, signing autographs and working the crowd. Pepper draws him into a tight hug. “You’re wonderful,” she says. “I laughed, and I cried, and I…” She shakes her head. “That was _incredible_.”

“Thanks,” he says, breathing in the scent of her. His heart does that stupid little flip in his chest, and he wonders if he’s ever going to get over that. Over her.

“An inspiration,” Jarvis says. “A _masterpiece_.”

“Now you’re overselling it.” Tony signs his program and grins at him. “Thanks for coming, J.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

* * *

Parts come easier after that. Tony still gets rejected, but word spreads about his performance in _Bent_ , and he finds himself on another stage four weeks later. The cast is bigger, twelve instead of two. He misses working with just Natasha and Clint.

He’s the youngest one here again, twenty-two years old to the general age of forty, and he has a hard time connecting with them. They’re nice enough, but most of them are already friends with each other, and he’s very clearly not part of their group. They treat him like an annoying little brother. It eats at him, almost worse than it did when he was at school. He’s a professional now. Shouldn’t he be on their level?

But he can’t let it show, so Tony does what he always does. He loses himself in his character, and pretends it doesn’t bother him at all.

The play opens to a less full house than _Bent_ did, and gets shitty reviews. They end up closing after twelve performances. Tony makes the mistake of reading one of the critic articles, and his old insecurities rear their ugly heads with a vengeance. He goes to bed that night with the words “a show that erases itself from your memory even as you watch it, every performance flat and uninspiring” swirling in his mind. It takes him a few days to pull himself out of _that_ spiral.

He ends up back in a bar, hand around a glass of whiskey, and another glass already in him, before the sting of the words starts to fade.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he tells himself. It’s like playing with fire, and then getting surprised every time he gets burned.

“Can’t keep doing what?” the bartender asks. He’s a nice looking guy, tall and blond, with broad shoulders framed in a blue shirt.

“Being me,” he says. “It sucks too much.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” The guy offers him a hand. “I’m Steve.”

“Tony.”

“What sucks about being you?”

“Most things.” He takes a drink. “But apparently my acting work is flat and uninspiring.”

Steve snickers. “Who told you that?”

“It was in the paper. Must be true.”

“One line in a paper and it sucks to be you, huh?”

Tony raises his glass in a salute, then tosses back the rest of it. Steve pours him another. “That one’s on me,” he says, blue eyes bright and beautiful. “Sorry your life is so awful.”

This makes Tony laugh, and he takes the glass. “I accept your pity drink.”

Someone calls Steve over. “Be right back,” he says, and he disappears around the other side of the bar.

He’s pretty, Tony thinks, watching him go. Nice eyes, easy smile. All hard lines of muscle underneath that shirt. Very different from the things that he’s used to. He likes it.

When Steve comes back, Tony asks for the check. Steve slides it across the counter. “I’m off in an hour,” he says. “If you want.”

Tony blinks, a little surprised. “Huh?”

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I shouldn’t assume. It’s just the way you were looking at me.” He shrugs. “No harm if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t usually take guys home,” Tony says, the whiskey making him honest.

“No worries.” Steve grins at him, a brilliant thing that makes his heart beat a little faster. “I’ve got enough experience for both of us.”

The words shoot right through Tony in a flash of heat, and he swallows hard. “Alright.”

* * *

“I’m in art school,” Steve tells him the next morning. They’re in Steve’s kitchen, a little thing barely big enough for those massive shoulders. He flips a pancake. “I was in the military, before. Joined up when I was eighteen.” He indicates the tattoo that spirals down his arm, a scene of planes and silhouetted soldiers under parachutes. “I was with the 101st. Airborne. Got out last year.”

“Cool,” Tony says, eyes on the shirtless wonder that is this man. Steve flashes him a smile and tosses the pancake onto Tony’s plate. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-six. What do you do?”

“Me? I’m just an actor.”

“Anything I’d know?”

“Not likely.” Tony bites into his pancake. “So, art school?”

“Specializing in photography. I bartend on the side. I’ve also got a little studio that I run. I don’t have a ton of clients, but it’s enough to help make the rent.” Steve tosses him another pancake. “So do you do like plays, or movies, or what?”

Tony sighs. “I’ve been in two plays. One of them was called _Bent, Not Broken,_ and this last one was _Pensacola._ The first one went better.”

Steve reaches into his pantry and tosses a bottle of syrup on the table. “I remember reading about the first one,” he says. “A friend of mine actually went to see it. He said it was really good.” He shrugs. “I’m not really into theater, so I didn’t go. But I’ve heard of it, anyway.”

Tony nods. “It was a good play. Good writer, good co-lead.”

As if on cue, his phone buzzes. It’s Natasha. _Free for lunch today?_

 _Sure,_ he texts back. _Where and when?_

Steve turns the stove off and sits across from him. “Any good?”

“They’re great,” Tony says. “My usual criteria for food is that it’s hot, and someone else made it. So you’re winning on both counts.”

This earns him another one of those brilliant smiles, and Steve takes the syrup from him. “So,” he says, drowning his pancakes in it. “Tell me about you.”

“I just told you,” Tony says. “I’m a struggling actor.”

“Come on,” Steve says. “I’m an artist. I can see there’s way more to you than that. You’ve got depth.”

_I’ve got anxiety and probably depression, plus an alcohol problem and a chronic inability to discuss my feelings. Is that what’s considered depth these days?_

Steve is looking at him oddly, so Tony clears his throat and pushes the thoughts away. “Well,” he says, holding an arm out dramatically to the side. “It all started twenty-two years ago…”

* * *

Steve is an enigma of a person, and Tony finds him absolutely fascinating. It’s like a character study, almost. Like he’s multiple people and personalities wrapped up in a single person. There’s Artist Steve, who is kind and sweet and makes pancakes and takes endless pictures. There’s Bartender Steve, who’s cool, and suave, and flirts with everything on two legs. There’s Sexy Steve, who knows _exactly_ how to push Tony’s buttons to get him on his knees, or into bed. He hadn’t been lying about his experience that first night, and Tony is learning new things every day from him.

Sad Steve is the one Tony isn’t sure how to handle. He barely knows how to manage his own emotions, let alone deal with with someone else’s. He meets Sad Steve for the first time two weeks after the pancake breakfast, when Tony knocks on the apartment door with coffees in one hand and a box in the other.

“Steve,” he calls. “I got you a present.” No answer, but the door is unlocked. Tony shrugs and walks in, setting the items on the table. “Steve, you in here?”

Still no answer. Tony stands uncomfortably for a moment, unsure what to do. The apartment is dark as hell and he feels oddly like a voyeur, intruding on someone’s personal life. Then a low voice says, “Now’s not a good time, Tony.”

Tony whips around and squints at the pile of blankets on the couch. Then he realizes that Steve _is_ the pile of blankets, and he walks over. “Hey, man. I brought you coffee.”

“It’s not a good time,” Steve repeats, and he sounds…really upset.

Tony hesitates for a moment, then kneels by him. “Are you okay?” He puts a hand on Steve’s arm, fingers ghosting over the tattoo.

“Get OUT!” Steve yells, ripping away from him. He scoots over to the other side of the couch and glares at Tony. “What the fuck are you even doing here?”

“I…” Tony’s at a loss for words. “I brought you coffee?”

“I don’t want it. Get the fuck out.”

Tony blinks, suddenly feeling the sting of tears. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry.”

He takes the cups and leaves, hurrying back out into the light of day. He dumps Steve’s coffee into the nearest trash can, then dumps his own two blocks later. _What the fuck was that about?_

He walks for a long time, focusing on the rhythm of his footsteps and absolutely nothing else. The crowds jostle him as he goes, everyone heading for somewhere. Everyone except him.

Tony thinks about calling Jarvis, but he quickly abandons the idea. He doesn’t need to call Jarvis for everything. He’s a grown-ass man, he has a degree. Shouldn’t he be able to solve his own problems? Deal with himself like an adult?

It’s after noon before he finally gets back to his own place, and he’s shocked to find Steve sitting on the front steps. “Hi,” he says, slowing to a stop. “Uh…”

Steve is clutching the sketchbook Tony had bought for him. “I’m sorry,” he says, before Tony can say anything else. “I’m really sorry. That was mean of me, this morning.” He pats the concrete steps next to him. “Will you sit?”

“Are you going to yell at me again?”

There’s a flash of _something_ in Steve’s eyes—anger, maybe?—but he just shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to. I have…” He sighs. “Come sit, please. Let me explain.”

Tony sits.

“I have PTSD,” Steve says without preamble. “I saw a lot of shit overseas. Things that I’m still processing. Things that give me nightmares. I got diagnosed two years ago.”

“Oh,” Tony says, because he’s not sure what else to say to that. “I’m sorry.”

“I deal with it most of the time. It’s not a big deal. But some nights are really bad, and I…” He shakes his head. “Last night was a bad night. Like, Bad with a capital B. I woke up at two in the morning and I haven’t been able to sleep since.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m apologizing.” Steve runs his hand over the sketchbook. “I didn’t mean to yell. It was a bad night, and I usually deal with those alone. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

Tony absorbs this information, unsure what to do about it. Hug Steve? Kiss him? Tell him it’ll be okay? “Thanks for telling me.”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Steve says. “I would have told you before. I just haven’t had a nightmare in a while. I was kind of hoping it had gone away.” He shrugs.

They sit in silence for awhile, Steve still gently touching the sketchbook. People pass by on the street, oblivious to the little world between the two of them. Tony watches the breeze blow through the trees and tries to think of something to say.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asks.

Steve’s face tightens. “No,” he says, and the word is so cold that Tony doesn’t ask again. A few minutes later, Steve sighs and nudges Tony with his shoulder. “Thanks for the book.”

“Is it the right kind?” Tony asks, relieved to have something else to talk about. “I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t remember the exact brand you mentioned.”

“It’s perfect,” Steve says, and he kisses Tony. It’s nothing like their other kisses—this one is soft, and sweet, and Tony melts into it with a little noise that makes Steve grin. “You’re perfect,” he adds, softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Tony murmurs, and he leans his head on Steve’s shoulder.

* * *

They officially become a couple a week or so after that. Jarvis takes the news in stride with a single question. “Does he make you happy?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, remembering that morning, and the happy glow on Steve’s face. Decidedly not remembering what came after, when he locked himself in the bathroom for an hour and wouldn’t talk to Tony about why.

“That’s all I care about, then.”

Natasha smirks when he tells her. “I knew it,” she says.

“Knew what?” Steve asks, one arm slung loosely around Tony’s shoulders. They’re sitting on the front steps of Steve’s bar. Tony’s leaning against him, his Shakespeare book open to Hamlet. Steve’s got his sunglasses on and his face tilted up to the sun, a joint dangling loosely between his fingers.

“You two. I could tell.” She shrugs. “Just the way you looked at him.”

“Told you,” Steve says, poking Tony’s ribs. “You keep staring at me like that, people are gonna notice.”

“Can’t help it,” Tony says, poking him back and pulling the joint from his hand. “You’re just too damn pretty.”

Pepper finds out two weeks after that, when she accidentally runs into them at a coffee shop. “Oh,” is all she says, looking at their joined hands, and she leaves without her coffee.

“Who was that?”

“Old girlfriend.” Tony kisses Steve. “Don’t worry about her.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t.”

Tony lands a part in an off-off Broadway production. They get exactly one week of rehearsals before the whole thing is cancelled.

“Good thing you’re a trust fund baby,” is all Steve says when Tony tells him. Which is true, but it oddly stings. Tony’s never had the experiences Steve’s had with money. He’s always had whatever he needed. Stark Industries is still running strong, and Howard set him up for life in that respect. Money will never be a concern for him.

Which certainly helps with the dry spells between jobs, but Tony can’t help but feel like there’s a rift between him and Steve about it. They don’t fight about it or anything, but every time Steve casually mentions it, it’s like a little prick to Tony’s soul. Like Steve’s saying _oh, no big deal you didn’t get the part. Not like you needed it anyway._

Tony knows that’s just him reading too much into it, and he knows he’s stupid for thinking that. But _knowing_ that it’s stupid doesn’t necessarily make him stop thinking it.

So he calls up Clint after his fifth failed audition. “Hey, man. Any strokes of genius? I could really use a break here.”

“No,” he says, sounding sad. “I’m working on selling a script, but I don’t have any takers yet, and I don’t have the funding to do this one myself.” He sighs. “I’ll call around, though. See if I can get something. Sit tight, okay?”

“Okay,” Tony says. “Thanks, Clint. I owe you one.”

Clint calls him back two days later. “Her name’s Kate Bishop,” he says. “She’s a talent agent. We grew up next to each other, she’s awesome. She saw your work in _Bent_ and she thinks she’s got a couple auditions you’d be good for, and she’s looking for new clients. Interested?”

“Fuck yeah,” Tony says. “I owe you so much, holy shit. Send me her number, _please_.”

“You don’t owe me shit, man. You brought Jack to life. This is the least I can do.”

Kate Bishop turns out to be a slip of a girl with a wildfire personality. She greets Tony with an enthusiastic handshake and hands him a paper with fifteen auditions on it. “I circled the ones I think you’d like,” she says. “Based on what I saw you do in Clint’s play. It was fabulous, by the way. You were brilliant.”

“I’ll do all of them,” Tony says.

He gets through three before one of them calls him back, and he winds up landing the part of Thomas in a new play called _Bet Twice._ It’s another small production, almost like _Pensacola,_ but at least the cast on this one is friendlier. After a week of rehearsals, one of the members invites him out to a party. “It’s just a small thing,” she says. “Some cast and crew members. You in?”

“Sure, Val.”

“You can bring your boyfriend,” she tells him. “I’ll text you the address.”

Steve claps with excitement when Tony tells him. “This is great,” he says. “I haven’t been to a party since the Airborne days.” He kisses Tony sweetly and drags him over to his closet. “Alright. What are we wearing?”

“I was just gonna wear this,” Tony says, gesturing to his Metallica t-shirt.

Steve shoves a bundle of clothes at him. “No, you’re not.”

“Okay,” Tony says, taking them. He lays them on the bed and strips his shirt off. “You’re the artist.” He picks up the shirt Steve handed him—a blue button down one, and starts to put it on.

“Hold on,” Steve says, and Tony looks up. He’s staring at Tony, a heat in his eyes, and a sly smile tugging at his mouth. He steps over and captures Tony’s mouth in a kiss—hungry, possessive, the kind that makes Tony’s heart beat a little bit faster. “Take the rest of this off,” he murmurs.

“We’re gonna be late,” Tony protests, but his hands are already reaching for his jeans.

“Fashionably late,” Steve says with a smirk, and he pushes Tony backwards onto the bed.

* * *

They arrive to the party fashionably late. Tony tugs up the collar of his shirt to hide a hickey and smiles at Steve. “Be cool,” he says. “I have to work with these people.”

Steve grins back at him. “I’m a bartender,” he says. “I know how to work a crowd. Don’t worry about me.”

Val opens the door. “Hel _lo_ ,” she says, dragging her eyes over Steve. He does look good, Tony has to admit, with the way his shirt stretches out over his chest. He’s wearing a plaid button-down over it, his tattoos peeking out from under the sleeve. Between that and the tight black jeans, Tony kind of wants to take him back home and right to bed. “Come on in. Party’s just getting started.”

The party is actually in full swing. Tony waves at his cast members, and Steve drifts over to get them drinks. He comes back with a couple beers. “Sorry,” he says. “No whiskey.”

“Beer’s fine.”

They mingle with the guests, and this is how Tony first meets Party Steve. Tony’s not shy or anything—he’s an actor, for God’s sake—but Steve practically _oozes_ charm, and it’s fascinating to watch. He shakes hands and moves through the crowd with a smile, learning names with ridiculous ease. Tony feels like a bumbling idiot next to him, and eventually he ends up just leaning against the wall and observing.

Things take a turn around midnight, when one of the cast—Jensen, Tony’s pretty sure—bursts into the apartment with a loud, “Guess who’s got the good shit?”

Val whoops in delight. “You got it?”

“I got it,” he says, handing her something.

They sit on the couch and start handing something out—little stickers, it looks like, and Tony squints at them. _Drugs?_

Steve takes one without fuss and sets it on his tongue. He and Val exchange some quiet words, something that ends with both of them laughing. Tony drinks his beer and tries not to look at the way her hand is sliding up his thigh, and how Steve isn’t doing anything to stop it.

Tony stays against the wall until Steve suddenly seems to remember that he didn’t come here alone. He murmurs something to Val, who laughs again, and gets up, carefully stepping over people and discarded beer cans until he reaches Tony. “Stop being awkward,” Steve tells him.

“I’m not awkward,” Tony says.

“You are. Just relax, okay?”

“This isn’t really my thing,” Tony says, gesturing to the crowd. The alcohol is, but the drugs aren’t. He’ll have a joint every now and then, but he’s not into the rest of it.

Steve rolls his eyes. “No one’s making you do drugs, dumbass. This isn’t high school. Grow the hell up and at least come _sit_ over here. Just tell them no if you don’t want any.”

Tony grips his beer so tightly he feels like it might shatter in his hand. Shred him like Steve’s words just did. _Pull yourself together, Stark. Come on._

“Fine,” he says, voice tighter than he’d like, and he comes to sit next to Steve.

Val offers him a tab. “You in?”

“No thanks,” he says.

She shrugs and pops it in her own mouth. “Your loss.”

Tony takes a drink. “We have to work tomorrow,” he says.

Jensen snorts. “Who died and made you cast mom?” he asks, and the rest snicker.

Steve pokes Tony in the side. “Knock it off,” he hisses, and Tony clenches his fist at his side.

It’s three in the morning before the party _finally_ winds down. Tony literally has to drag Val off of Steve, who doesn’t seem to care that she’s got one hand under his shirt and her other hand on his thigh again. Steve doesn’t seem to care either. Tony settles her onto the other couch with a bottle of water in reach, then turns to his boyfriend. “Come on, Steve. We’re not sleeping here.”

“Fuck off,” Steve says, his eyes hazy.

“Steve, come on. Let’s get you home.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groans. “You’re fucking annoying, you know that?”

Tony grits his teeth. “You’re still tripping. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do know.” He sounds strung out at hell, but his words are clear. “For a spoiled rich kid, you’re uptight as hell.” He shakes himself free from Tony’s hand. “Just relax and have fun for once, would you?”

“I am having fun,” Tony lies. “But it’s late, and we both have to work tomorrow.”

Steve just shakes his head. “You can go. I’m staying.” He settles back onto the couch. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Some part of Tony wants to tell him not to bother. To just fucking stay here, then, and not call him at all.

But the way Steve had looked at him before the party…no one’s looked at him like that in so long. Not since Pepper. Steve makes him feel _wanted_. Special. All the things that Tony has such a hard time feeling on his own. Is he really going to drop that over such a trivial thing? Steve is right, he needs to grow the hell up. It’s just drugs. Not like it was group murder or something.

“Fine,” Tony says. He presses a water bottle into Steve’s hand. “We’ll stay.”

Steve beams up at him. “Come here,” he says, and pulls Tony down into a kiss. “Sleep with me.”

“I already do that,” Tony says, and Steve chuckles.

* * *

“Sorry about all that,” Val says to him the next day. She looks very chipper for having done drugs all night. “About being all over Steve. He’s hot.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says. “Don’t worry about it.”

It’s _not_ fine, but he’s already got a reputation now as cast mom. He really doesn’t need to add jealous boyfriend to that. He can deal with his. He’s in his armor today, and it doesn’t hurt him. Nothing hurts him. He’s made of iron.

“We’re having another party on Saturday,” she says. “If you want to come.” She pauses, then says, “It’ll be like the last one.”

Jensen brushes by. “We promise not to make you uncomfortable this time,” he says, exchanging a smirk with Val. “We’ll keep it very PG. Maybe put some Disney movies on for you.”

Tony grits his teeth. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just teasing. He’s fine.

“I’ll be there,” he says to Val.

“Good,” she says. “Bring Steve.”

* * *

_Bring Steve._

That phrase becomes the melody of his life. Everywhere he goes, everyone he meets. Any time Steve comes along, it’s like Tony fades into the background of his own life. Girls love him. Guys love him. Animals love him. The fucking _sunshine_ loves him. Tony’s pretty sure it hasn’t rained or even been overcast once since he met Steve.

And the worst part, really, is that Steve doesn’t seem to notice this. It’s not a malicious thing on his part. It’s just who he is. All those personalities merging into one package with one hell of a presentation.

Well, almost all of them. Tony is the only one who gets to see Sad Steve. It’s never a certain thing, what’s going to set him off. They’ll be walking down the street one day, happy and laughing, and then the next day Steve will tucked away in bed and refusing to come out. Tony learns quickly to keep his distance when he gets that way. Steve gets bitter, and angry, and lashes out with a special kind of cruelty. He knows exactly what to say to hurt Tony, just how to craft his words so they pierce right into his heart.

Every time it happens, Tony sets his jaw and resolves to make it stop, to break up, but the problem is Steve also knows exactly how to apologize. He’ll bring Tony something nice, and be extra sweet for days on end, and Tony ends up caving every time. He knows Steve is struggling with his own things. He knows Steve doesn’t mean any of the things he says. Tony is just being sensitive. It would be stupid to break up with him over a few meaningless words.

So he does what he always does, and he hides himself away. No one wants to see the real him, not even Steve, so he just gives them what they want instead. He drops Tony Stark and becomes Anthony Stark. The mature, smoother, charismatic partner to Steve’s sunny brilliance. Anthony Stark is cool. Anthony Stark laughs and drinks and holds wild parties. Anthony Stark has no insecurities. Anthony Stark is confident, and fun, and easy to work with.

It’s still him, just… _better_ , easier, and sometimes he wonders why he ever bothers being Tony at all.

“I worry about you,” Jarvis says one night. They’re at Val’s again, but Tony hasn’t talked with Jarvis in a while, so he makes his excuses and slips into the bathroom for some privacy.

“Don’t,” Tony tells him. “I’m doing fine. I’m getting more parts now, you know.” He’s still coming down off a trip, and the counter is warping under his hand. He grips it tightly.

“I know, and I’m proud of you. But I don’t hear from you very often. I miss talking with you, Tony.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tony says. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“You’re not my father,” Tony snaps. “I don’t need you to babysit me. I’m fine. I’m happy. I’m doing well. Let it go, okay?”

He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but it’s too late to take them back. There’s a moment of stunned silence from the other end of the phone, and then Jarvis says, “Will that be all, sir?”

It’s cold, and it’s clipped, and it’s exactly how Jarvis used to respond to his father. Tony sucks in a breath. “Jarvis—“

“I need to go,” Jarvis says. “I’ll be at your performance on Sunday. Good luck.”

He hangs up.

Tony stares in the mirror, phone still to his ear. The bathroom around him seems to melt into darkness, leaving him the only point of light. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, wide and desperate and full of emotions that he can’t name, _won’t_ name.

 _I don’t know who you are anymore,_ he thinks, and he turns away.

* * *

One year later, Tony is backstage practicing his solo for the _Days and Nights_ musical when one of the set pieces breaks. It’s a spectacular crash, involving lots of screaming and swearing. No one is hurt, luckily, but the director is pissed as hell. He’s berating one of the construction crew when Tony pokes his head out to see what’s happening.

“Irresponsible!” the director is screaming. “Absolutely irresponsible, reckless behavior!”

Tony pulls aside one of the crew. “What happened?”

“Part of the second floor fell,” the girl says, pointing up at a section of the house they’re building. “Stupid accident. Ron didn’t do anything wrong.” She sighs. “We’re short today too. I don’t know how we’re gonna get that fixed.”

It’s been awhile since Tony’s done set construction, but Bruce taught him well, and he remembers. “I’ll help,” he says. “I used to do this kind of stuff.”

She tilts her head at him. “Didn’t you go to Juilliard?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Fancy school for set constructor.”

“It was a rough start.” Tony takes the hammer from her tool belt. “Where’s the saw?”

She outfits him with safety gear and he gets to work. It’s been so long since he’s built anything, but he easily falls back into the rhythm of it. He’s missed this. Missed the simplicity of it. He doesn’t have to fake anything with these guys. He can either do the job, or he can’t. Black and white. Clear.

“Aren’t you one of the leads?” someone asks.

Tony looks up from his nail gun. “Yeah? So what?”

The guy shrugs. “I’m just surprised you’re mingling with the peons.”

“It’s no big deal, I’m just helping. I’m Tony, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know.” He reaches over and takes the nail gun. “Give me that, and go help Jenny on the saw, will you?”

It takes them three hours to put the house back together. The director is less than pleased that Tony was helping, and lectures him about unions, and risks, and liability. Tony listens with half an ear, watching the guy put the finishing touches on the set.

“I’ll never do it again,” he lies, and walks over to the guy. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Tony gestures at the house. “You do good work.”

“I learned from the best.” He sets the hammer down and wipes his face. “Bruce Banner taught me everything I know.”

Tony laughs. “You know Bruce?”

“ _You_ know Bruce?”

“Shit, man, I used to work for him. I spent a couple months helping him build the set of the play I got my first part in.”

He smiles at Tony, teeth white against dark skin. “Well. Now that I know you’re one of us, you’re _much_ more tolerable.” He offers Tony a hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m James Rhodes. You can call me Rhodey.”

Tony shakes his hand. “You heard from Bruce recently?”

“He picked up some big job in L.A., last I heard.” Rhodey shrugs. “I miss him. He’s a good guy to work for.”

“Sure is.” Tony gestures to the door. “Are you done here? Wanna go get a drink?”

Rhodey studies him for a moment, dark eyes intent. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Okay. Let me get my coat.”

“Awesome.” Tony pulls out his phone and fires off a quick text to Steve.

_TS: I’ll be home late. Getting drinks with a friend_

_SR: Anyone I know?_

_TS: Construction guy. I was helping him build sets. He used to work for Bruce too._

_SR: Sounds like fun. Am I invited?_

Tony doesn’t know how to answer that, so he doesn’t. He just shoves the phone back into his pocket and motions to Rhodey. “Ready?”

They walk to a nearby bar, some little local place Tony’s never been. Rhodey greets the bartender by name. “The usual,” he says, and looks at Tony. “What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey,” Tony says. His phone buzzes again, and he glances down at it.

_SR: Guess that’s a no, then._

Tony bites his tongue and sets the phone down.

“Problem?” Rhodey asks, reading his expression with an ease that frightens Tony.

Tony shakes his head, and exchanges himself for Anthony, feeling the familiar persona settle around him like a security blanket. “Nope. No problem at all.” He takes a drink. “So. When did you start working for Bruce?”

* * *

_Days and Nights_ does well. Really well. _Unspeakably_ well. Rave reviews, packed audiences, standing ovations, the whole nine yards. It’s everything Tony ever dreamed of, and it also scares the hell out of him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s not even sure if it’s real.

“Just smile and say thank you,” Steve says, watching Tony’s interview from last night on the TV. “Stop thinking so much about it.”

“It’s just crazy,” Tony says. “I’ve been working towards this since I was sixteen. I can’t believe it’s happening.” He watches himself—no, _Anthony_ — on screen, notes the easy smile and the relaxed posture.

 _Everyone should move to New York to be an actor,_ Anthony says, offering a charming grin to the woman interviewing him. _It’s got the best bars to drink away the pain of not getting a callback._

“And now you have it. Stop second guessing it.” Steve gestures to the screen. “People like you.”

“They like that guy,” Tony says. “They have no idea who _I_ am.” Steve rolls his eyes at this, and Tony scowls. “The hell’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Steve says. “Just tired of hearing you bitch about your life. You know how many people would kill for what you’re having? Just be grateful for it.”

“I am grateful for it.” Tony snaps. “I’ve never once said otherwise.”

Steve gets up. “I’m going out,” he says. “Call me when you’re done moping, will you?”

Tony studies him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks pale. Thin. Withdrawn. “You’ve been having nightmares again, haven’t you?”

“What do you care?” Steve grabs his keys, dropping the pill bottle on the table.

Tony steps in front of him. “Hey. I do care. Don’t say that.” He looks down and picks up the bottle. “What’s in here? What are these?”

“I don’t know.” Steve says. “They keep me up.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Jensen.” Steve takes it from him and tucks it into his pocket.

He’s teetering, he looks like he’s about to fall over. Tony guides him into a chair. “When’s the last time you slept, Steve?”

“Couple days.” Steve rubs his face. He looks wrecked. “I can’t, okay? I keep seeing shit. I don’t want to see it.”

“You can’t just not _sleep_ ,” Tony says. “Jesus, Steve. You look like you’re gonna fall over any second.”

“Stop mothering me. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” Tony takes his arm. “Come on. You’ve gotta sleep. Let’s go to bed.”

Steve lets Tony pull him into the bedroom. He doesn’t bother with pajamas or anything, just strips off Steve’s shirt and pushes him onto the bed.

“You’re gonna leave me,” Steve mumbles into the pillow.

Tony brushes his hair back. “No I’m not.”

“Yeah you are. Gonna get famous and leave me. Everyone—everyone always leaves me.”

“I would never.” Tony lays next to him and pulls him closer. “I love you, Steve. I would never leave you.”

“You love me?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. He thinks so, anyway. It’s been a year and a half. Isn’t he supposed be in love by this point? Not that he knows what love feels like, in any case. He doesn’t think he had it with Pepper. He’s not even sure what love is supposed to _look_ like—God knows his parents didn’t exactly inspire confidence in that realm.

But he likes Steve, and he wants to spend time with him, and he definitely likes the way Steve looks at him. Likes the way he smiles at him in the mornings, like Tony is something precious.

He doesn’t like _this_ stuff—the mood swings, and the depression, and the way Steve sometimes seems hell bent on self-destructing. But god knows Tony’s got his own baggage, and he’s not exactly a picnic to be with. Maybe that’s what love is—dealing with each other’s shit until one of you dies.

Tony thinks he could live with that.

“You love me,” Steve says again.

“Yeah.”

Steve nods. “You can’t leave, then,” he says, gripping Tony’s hand like a vise. “You hear me, Tones? You can’t—you can’t leave me. You _can’t_.”

“I won’t,” Tony promises. “I won’t leave.”

“I’ll die,” Steve says. “You’re all I’ve got, Tony. I can’t stay grounded without you.” He pulls Tony close, fixes those beautiful blue eyes on him. “I mean it, Tones. If you go, I’m gonna put a bullet through my goddamn skull. I need you.”

“Don’t say that,” Tony pleads. “I won’t leave, I swear.”

Steve kisses him. “Okay,” he says, his eyes already slipping closed. “Okay.”

“Please sleep,” Tony says. “Steve, you gotta sleep. You’re running on fumes.”

No answer. Steve’s breathing evens out, and he’s asleep. Tony runs a hand over his blond hair, noting how long and limp it’s getting. He’ll have to convince him to sit for a haircut one of these days.

The pill bottle is still in Steve’s pocket. Tony thinks about taking it and flushing them down the toilet. _You need to sleep,_ he thinks, still smoothing Steve’s hair. _Not stay up all night._

Except that would make him the world’s biggest hypocrite, because Tony does the same thing. He doesn’t have nightmares like Steve does, but he stays up late too, forces it until he’s practically falling over. It’s just easier that way. Helps him avoid that twilight moment before sleeping when he thinks about all the mistakes he’s ever made.

So no. He’s not going to take Steve’s pills. Love is dealing with the other person’s shit, and this is just part of who Steve is. Tony will just have to make do with what he’s got, and hope the rest works itself out in time.

* * *

Tony’s career takes off with a vengeance after _Days and Nights_. No longer does he have to meet up with Kate in crappy diners to look over lists of auditions. Now _he’s_ the one turning casting directors down, and he has to admit it feels damn good. He channels Anthony hard for those calls, playing the aloof bastard who _might_ be interested…for the right price, the right persuasion. He negotiates and banters and makes them battle for him. It’s the only time he feels like he has control, because his relationship with Steve is anything but.

But then one day Clint calls him, and Tony can’t play the game with him. Which is how he finds himself outside of Clint’s apartment on a too-early Friday morning, rubbing sleep out of his own eyes as he knocks on the door. It had been a particularly bad night for Steve, bad enough that he’d woken up screaming. Tony finally calmed him down around three am, and he wasn’t able to go back to sleep after. He stifles a yawn and knocks on Clint’s door.

It opens, and Clint is there, bare-chested, in purple pajama pants, and looking just as tired as Tony is. “Hey,” he says. Then there’s a jingling noise, and he sighs. “Lucky—no—get _back_.” He nudges the dog with his foot, moving him aside long enough for Tony to slip in.

"Morning."

“Pay the dog tax,” Clint says, pointing at Lucky. He studies Tony for a moment. “You look like crap. What’s up with that?”

 _Just my boyfriend’s never-ending nightmares, which despite three and a half years of dating, he still won’t tell me what they’re about._ Tony kneels down to pet Lucky. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. How are you?”

“Busy,” Clint says. He picks up a coffee pot from the counter and takes a long swig. “Hungover as hell. I did a thing.” He takes another drink and winces. "My head hurts."

“Do you not have mugs? Or cups? Or bowls?"

“Not clean ones,” Clint says. Some of the coffee spills on the floor, and he looks at it in dismay. “Aw, coffee, _no_.”

Lucky bounds over to lick it up. Tony turns to take in the apartment, noting the loose papers and pizza boxes covering every available surface. Clint’s always been a bit of a disaster, but this is some next level stuff. “You did a thing, huh?”

“I did.” Clint sets the pot down. “It was a great thing. Is a great thing. Give me two seconds and I will find it.” He shuffles through the papers on the counter. “Goddamnit. It was _right_ here—“

“What are you looking for?” another voice asks, and Tony turns to see a guy in purple boxers yawning his way into the kitchen. He’s a little shorter than Clint, with slightly longer brown hair and blue eyes that remind Tony of Steve. His left arm is black and silver, a full-length prosthetic that moves naturally with him. Tony stares at it, feeling the itch in the back of his mind to get his hands on it, open it up, see how it works. _Still Howard’s kid through and through, aren’t you?_

“I’m looking for the script,” Clint says. He turns around and narrows his eyes. “Aren’t those mine?”

“I couldn’t find mine. I went through your dresser.” The guy picks up the coffee pot and takes a swig. “The script is in the room, by the way.”

“What? Why?”

“You said you were going to put it under your pillow so the Musical Fairy would come and make it a real boy. Those were your exact words. I think I took the vodka away from you after that.”

Clint rubs his head. “Ah. Yes. That sounds familiar.” He shoulders past Tony. “Excuse me.”

The guy nods politely at Tony. “I’m Bucky,” he says.

“Tony.”

“How do you know Clint?”

Tony grins. “He gave me my first break. I’m an actor. How do you know him?”

“We’ve been working together. Among other things.”

Clint comes back, waving a sheaf of papers in triumph. “Got it!” He drops it in front of Tony, who leans forward to read the title. “See? I did a thing. Read it.”

“We’re so proud,” Bucky says dryly, opening cupboards. “Do you have any food that’s not cereal?”

“That’s Bucky Barnes,” Clint says, waving towards hand at him as he drinks more coffee. “I did him, too. Read the script.”

Tony snorts and picks up the script. “Classy,” he says, glancing at the title. “ _The Things My Hands Have Held._ Sounds…interesting.”

“It sounds _great_. And I’m a genius, I’m allowed to say classy things like that. Bucky, this is Tony Stark. Tony Stark, read the damn script.”

Bucky blinks. “ _Stark?_ ”

“Yes,” Tony says. “Like Stark Industries. Howard Stark was my dad.”

Bucky taps his prosthetic. “This is a Stark thing,” he says. “An experimental medical program. I lost the arm in Afghanistan. SI designed this for me.”

Tony reaches out and takes the arm. “I know this program,” he says. “I remember him talking about it.”

“We never met, but he saved my life. I was pretty miserable before this.” Bucky pulls back. “Sorry to hear he died.”

Tony nods. “Does it work okay?”

“It works great,” Clint interrupts. “Great dexterity. Fantastic control. Feels really nice on delicate parts. Would you _please_ read the script before I have an aneurysm?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Read it,” he says. “He won’t shut up until you do.”

Tony examines it. “This is a musical.”

“Yes.” Clint rubs his hand through his hair. Bucky knocks it away with a scowl. “I wrote the book, Buck did the music.”

“You’re a composer?”

“I wrote the lyrics,” Bucky corrects. “We outsourced the composing. This has been almost two years in the making. We only just finished the final scene last night.”

“Hence the vodka,” Tony says.

“Hence the vodka.”

Tony settles onto the couch to read the script, making room as Lucky jumps up and curls up next to him. “Okay,” he tells Clint and Bucky. “Neither of you interrupts me until this is done.”

“Sure,” Clint says. He pulls up one of the barstools and sits on it, propping his chin in his hand.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, pulling Clint away. “You are not looming over him. Come on. We’re getting dressed, and we’re going out, and he will call us when he’s done.”

“You can’t kick me out of my own apartment,” Clint protests, but he follows along behind Bucky nonetheless. Tony hides a smile and settles down to read.

Three hours later, he wipes the tears from his eyes and picks up the phone. Clint is back through the door within five minutes, scaring the hell out of Lucky as he shoves it open. “Well? Well?”

“It’s _amazing_ ,” Tony says. “Jesus, Clint. How the hell do you write this stuff?” He holds up the script. “This is beautiful. You actually made me cry.”

Clint beams at him, his nervousness vanishing to pride. “And the music?”

“Also amazing.” He shakes Bucky’s hand. “You guys are really onto something. This is gonna be a hit. Tony Award style.”

Clint claps his hands. “This calls for drinks,” he says.

“Absolutely not.” Bucky pulls him backwards. “You just polished off three mimosas. Go have some water.”

“You’re bossy today,” Clint says, but he kisses Bucky anyway and heads to the kitchen. “Fine. Water all around. We’ll celebrate with drinks at the Tonys.” He comes back and presses a glass into Tony’s hand. “You will, of course, be playing Noah.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You want _me_ to play Noah?”

“Duh.” Clint looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Did you think I was having you read that for fun? I wrote that part with _you_ in mind, Tony.”

“He did,” Bucky adds. “Seriously. We even had the songs done in your range so you could sing them. He wouldn’t shut up about you. I was starting to get jealous.”

“Tony’s not my type,” Clint tells him.

“I feel like I should be offended by that,” Tony says. “But you’re not my type either.”

“That’s okay. He’s my type.” Bucky smacks Clint on the ass. Clint kicks him in return, but Tony sees the fond smile spreading across his face. “In any case, yes. We want you to play Noah.”

“We’re not quite done,” Clint says. “I can’t do everything myself this time. I’ll go insane. More insane. I’m already halfway there. I don’t need to do the rest.”

“We still need to do a reading,” Bucky says. “We’re a little ahead of ourselves here. But we’ve got some backing already.” He looks at Tony. “So? You in?”

“You can call Bruce first and tell him you quit,” Clint says with a straight face. “Just for old times sake.”

Tony laughs. “I’m good,” he says. “Yeah. I’m in. Totally, one-hundred percent in.”

* * *

“A new musical,” Rhodey says. “You want _me_ to build the set for a new musical?”

“Yes,” Tony says. “Look, you’re my best friend, but I promise I’m not just being nice when I say you’re a genius with tools. Bruce might have taught you, but you own this shit. We want you to design it and build it.”

“I’m touched,” Rhodey says, grinning at him. “Seriously. I can’t believe you’re asking me.”

“Who else would I ask?” Tony drinks his whiskey and kicks Rhodey’s barstool. “I don’t know anyone else who’s talented enough to do what you do.”

Rhodey tilts his head. “What about Steve?”

Tony blinks and his hand tightens on the glass. “What about him?”

“I’m just surprised that you didn’t ask him to design it.”

“He does photography,” Tony says. “He’s not—set design is different. I mean he draws, but I don’t think it would work as well.”

What he doesn’t tell Rhodey is that he and Steve are having problems. They’ve always had problems, but it’s worse now, somehow. Steve’s photography business is struggling, and it stresses him out. He still hangs out with Tony’s castmates from _Bet Twice,_ and every time he comes back home, he’s either drunk or strung out on something. It’s Party Steve, but it’s Party Steve with something broken inside him, and Tony’s not sure if he can tell the difference some days between Party Steve or Suicidal Steve.

They’d argued last night, too. Something stupid. Tony can’t even remember what it was about. He’d said something, and Steve had said something, and then they’d both exploded at each other. And Tony _knows_ it’s just the stress talking for both of them—he’s wrapping up a production right now, and Steve is just trying hard to get his business going—but he hates how _mean_ Steve gets about it.

This fight in particular had been especially brutal. Steve had screamed at him about never being home, and Tony yelled right back about how at least he had a job, and things had just escalated from there.

It’s not right, he thinks some days. He’s pretty sure a relationship isn’t supposed to have this much stress and anxiety involved with it. It was never this hard with Pepper. He’s getting to the point where he’s almost afraid to go home, because he doesn’t know who’ll be waiting for him. Party Steve? Tired Steve? Sad Steve? Tony doesn’t want to see any of them. He just wants his boyfriend back.

He thinks about calling Jarvis to talk about it, but they rarely speak anymore. Jarvis still comes to his opening nights, and they occasionally meet up, but Tony’s never apologized for the jab about Jarvis not being his father. There’s a rift between them now. A coldness. Tony’s never regretted anything as much as he regrets that sentence. But he doesn’t know how to say it, and he’s pretty sure if he cracks that can of worms open, a whole bunch of other stuff is going to come pouring out, and it’s not going to be pretty. He’s spent a long time trying to hide from that side of himself. It would be stupid to run headfirst at it.

So he doesn’t call Jarvis. Love is dealing with other people’s shit, and this is just part of who Steve is. All the personalities wrapped up in a single package. Besides, it’s fine most days. He at least knows what the nightmares are about now. Steve finally shared that much with him. Not all the details, but he knows it’s something about an IED, and Afghanistan, and a vehicle convoy that hadn’t made it. Kids were involved. Steve had told him the story exactly one time, and then he’d had a series of bad days after that. Tony never asked again.

Rhodey is looking at him with concern, and Tony realizes he hasn’t said anything in awhile. He tries for a smile. “Steve’s a little stressed right now.”

“Steve’s always a little stressed,” Rhodey says. “What makes this different?”

Tony takes another drink, melts himself into Anthony. It makes him sit up a little straighter, and he gives a cavalier shrug. “I don’t know, Rhodes. Anyway. Are you going to do it?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “Stop it, Tony.”

“Stop what?”

“That. That thing you do. I hate it.”

“ _What_ thing?”

Rhodey points at him. “What you just did. It’s like you change. Like you’re getting into a character. I hate it. It’s still _you_ , but it’s not you. It’s colder.”

Tony’s heart is pounding in his ears, and all he can say is, “You notice that?”

“Of course I notice that,” Rhodes says. “You’re my best friend, Tony. You think I don’t notice when you become someone completely different?”

 _Steve doesn’t,_ he thinks, but then no, that’s wrong. Steve does know. Steve actively encourages it. Steve’s never liked being around Tony at all.

“It’s just a thing I do,” Tony says, and the words are oddly painful to get out. He takes a drink. “I go by Anthony, professionally. It’s kind of like another person to me. A character. It helps me deal with shit. With emotions. It’s my stage persona.”

“Well, tell it to take a hike. I don’t want to talk to Anthony, I want to talk to Tony.”

Tony shakes his head. “You don’t want to talk with Tony. No one likes Tony.” _God, this is a weird conversation._

“ _I_ like Tony,” Rhodey says. “I’ve known Tony for two years. Tony helps build sets. Tony drinks with me after work. Tony tells stupid jokes and tries too hard and makes me smile.” He sips his drink. “Anthony is a grade-A asshole, and he knows it. It’s fine if you want to be that guy for interviews, but don’t pull that shit with me, Tony. I like _you_.”

Tony stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say to that. “Uh…”

“I mean it,” Rhodes says. “You’re my best friend. That other guy? He’s just a cocky son of a bitch who comes out to play every once in awhile. He’s not you.” Rhodey puts his hand on the bar top. “Get it?”

“Yeah,” Tony says faintly. “I get it.”

“Good.” Rhodey sighs. “So tell me about Steve, then. What’s going on?”

Tony swallows hard. “I don’t know.” He shifts in his chair. “He’s been…he’s just been having a hard time.”

“Is he still seeing those people?”

“From _Bet Twice?_ Yeah. And he’s still doing drugs, and drinking, and…” Tony sighs. “I mean, I can’t exactly talk about healthy coping mechanisms. But the way he deals with stress…”

“It’s not good.”

“It’s not,” Tony agrees. “I love him, and I’m trying my best to help him. But he’s spiraling really hard, and I don’t know how to stop it.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Drops his armor for the briefest second, and says, “He keeps threatening to kill himself.”

Rhodey gapes at him. “He _what_?”

“He keeps…” Tony waves a hand, unsure how to phrase it. “Threaten’s the wrong word, I think. He doesn’t like, put a gun to his head or anything. He just talks about it. When it gets really bad, or when he’s really out of it. He makes me promise to stay, and says he doesn’t think he can keep going without me.”

The words are painful to say, but _God_ , they feel good coming out. Like he’s struggling his way back to the surface after being dumped overboard. He’s never told anyone this, not even Jarvis. It’s been hiding inside him for _years_ , festering and growing.

“Jesus,” Rhodey says, still staring at him. “That’s awful. Have you told anyone else? The man needs a psychiatrist!”

“He doesn’t like doctors,” Tony says, eyes on his drink. “He doesn’t go to them. He says I help.”

“That’s not _fair_ ,” Rhodey says. He slams his hand on the bar, and Tony jumps at the sound. “Tony, that’s not fair to you. You’re not trained to handle this, and he’s hurting you by asking.”

Tony rubs his face. “I don’t know what else to do, Rhodes.”

“You have to call someone. You have to get him help. Commit him somewhere if you have to.”

“No,” Tony says immediately. “I won’t do that. I can’t do that to him. It’ll destroy him.”

“He’s destroying himself,” Rhodey points out. “If he keeps going this way, it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when.”

Tony wants to keep arguing. Wants to keep living in his world where he’s all Steve needs, where if he can just stay home enough, or say the right things, or make the right move, he’ll keep Steve happy.

But he can’t act his way out of this one. Not this time. Everything Rhodey is saying to him is everything he’s been whispering to himself in the dead of night for years, and he can’t deny it anymore.

“I thought that’s what love is,” he says softly. “Just dealing with each other’s shit until you die.”

Rhodey laughs. “Love is dealing with each other’s shit _together_ ,” he says. “Love is realizing that you both have baggage, and that that baggage sucks, and it’s going to take the both of you to carry it. It’s not right for him to put all the burden on you.” He puts his hand over Tony’s, calloused and warm against his skin. “You’re a good person, Tones. Whether he knows it or not, he’s hurting you. You don’t deserve that.”

Tony stares into his glass, and steels himself. “I need to break up with him,” he murmurs. “Don’t I?”

“I’m not giving an opinion on that,” Rhodey says. “Whatever you do with that is your choice. But you do need to get him help. That’s _not_ negotiable. You can’t carry this alone any longer. I won’t let you.”

“Okay,” Tony says, and he can’t deny it’s a relief to let go. He slumps against the counter and rests his head in his hand. “Okay. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Good,” Rhodey says. “Good.”

They sit quietly for awhile. Tony finishes his drink. He doesn’t order a second one. He needs a clear head for this. His mind is already whirling with what he needs to say to Steve, things he needs to get out. How he’s going to phase it without hurting Steve too much.

From the heart, he finally decides. It has to come from the heart. His real heart. No script, no acting, no personas. No Anthony. It has to be Tony this time.

_It’s been a long time, man. Do you even remember how to be Tony for him?_

Eventually, Rhodey gets up and shrugs his coat on. “I gotta go,” he says. “I have an early day tomorrow. Tell Clint I’d be happy to be his set designer, and I do not accept coffee in lieu of paychecks.”

Tony laughs and wipes his eyes. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”

Rhodey puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come over,” he says. “When you’re done talking with Steve. When it’s straightened out. Let me know if you need help before then.”

“I will,” Tony says. “I promise.”

* * *

Steve is waiting up for him when he gets back. Not entirely unusual, but Tony wasn’t expecting it, and it jars him. He closes the door, taking note of the sheer amount of beer bottles littering the table. “Are those _all_ empty?”

“You gonna yell at me for drinking?” Steve laughs coldly. “You? Really?”

“No,” Tony says, biting back his first response. He studies Steve, really looks at him for the first time in a long time, and he sees the cracks in Steve’s armor. The little glimpses of himself that he tries so desperately to rein in and hide. Tony might as well be looking in a mirror.

 _We were never going to make it together,_ he realizes, and the thought makes him sad. _How could we? Neither of us know how to deal with ourselves. We’ve been acting this whole damn time._

“What?” Steve says, tipping a bottle into his mouth. “I don’t need your judgement, Tony. Not right now.”

“I’m not judging you,” Tony says. He reaches out and pulls the bottle away. “I need to talk to you.”

“That’s never a good sign.”

“I mean it, Steve.” He sits on the couch next to him, and takes his hand. “Look. I love you. I do. But this?” He waves a hand at the bottles. “This has to stop. _You_ have to stop.”

“You said you weren’t gonna yell at me for drinking.”

“I’m not _yelling_ at you for anything. I’m telling you that this can’t go on. The drinking. The drugs. The late nights. The not-sleeping. Christ, Steve, you’re falling apart in front of me, and you have been for _years_.”

Steve smirks. “Isn’t that what we do?” He points at Tony. “You act. I do this. Neither of us exactly hold the all the cards on mental health and wellness.” He reaches out and picks up his bottle, scowls when it comes up empty. “We put the fun in dysfunctional, remember?”

“If you keep going like this, dysfunctional is going to turn into dead.”

“Fuck you,” Steve says. “I’ll just get a gun, then, is that what you want?”

Tony shakes his head. “Stop it. That’s not fair.” He pulls the bottle away again. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Steve. Do you really want to kill yourself?” He looks into those blue eyes, the ones he fell so hard for, and shakes his head. “I know you have problems, Steve. We both do. But it’s not fair to keep asking me to deal with yours alone. It’s not fair to keep making _me_ your foundation for reality. It’s not fair to either of us.”

Steve rubs his face. “So what are you _saying_?” he asks. “Are you dumping me? Is this your idea of a breakup speech?”

“I’m saying I can’t do this anymore,” Tony says. “You. Me. This.” He shakes his head. “Stevie, I can’t. I love you so much, but this is killing me.”

Steve looks—he looks _small_ , suddenly. Broken. “You said you wouldn’t leave,” he whispers, and his voice cracks. “Tony, you _promised_ me.”

“Steve,” Tony whispers back, gripping his hands. “I’m not _leaving_. I’m not walking out the door and never looking back. I couldn’t do that to you. But I can’t sit back and watch you self-destruct like this anymore. You need help, Steve. You need serious, professional help, and I can’t give you that. This isn’t _healthy_. This isn’t okay for either of us.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Steve says, and he buries his face in his hands. “I don’t—I don’t know how to _stop_ , Tony.”

Tony holds him closer, feeling tears burn his own eyes as sobs wrack Steve’s body. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know, Steve. I’m sorry.”

Finally, Steve raises his head, eyes glistening. “I need help,” he finally admits. “I…I need help, Tony.”

“I’ll help you,” Tony promises, relief flooding him. “I’ll pay for rehab, and we’ll get you to a doctor, and we’ll do whatever you need. I’m not leaving you, Steve. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m not doing _us_ anymore.”

They’re quiet for a long time after that. Both of them. Tony holds onto him tightly, and waits.

Finally, Steve nods against him. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“You’re right,” Steve says. “You’re right, Tony. I need help. I’ve needed help for a long time.” He pulls back, and wipes at his eyes. “I’m sorry. God, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tony murmurs. He puts a hand on Steve’s arm. “I’ll be here as long as you need me. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” Steve says, and he pulls Tony into his arms.

Tony settles into the embrace. An incredible weight lifts off his shoulders, and he sighs in relief, pressing his face against Steve’s chest.

For the first time in a long time, he breathes.

* * *

The next day, he checks Steve into rehab with a tearful goodbye. Steve looks nervous, but determined, and there’s a hint of the old Steve underneath that expression. Tony smiles when he sees it. “You’re gonna be okay,” he says.

“I know,” Steve says, and he kisses Tony’s cheek. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Tony calls Jarvis later that night from Rhodey’s apartment. “I broke up with Steve,” he says as soon as the line clicks. “I—it wasn’t healthy for me. For either of us. So I broke up with him. And I’m sorry, Jarvis, for what I said to you. You’re not my father, but you’re the closest thing I have, and God knows you were better at it than Howard was anyway. You’re not my father, but you raised me, and I love you so much. And I miss talking to you. And I’m sorry I haven’t called. I haven’t been there for you either.”

He gasps, then, putting his head in his hands. He’s exhausted, like he had to pry the words out of himself with physical effort. Rhodey rubs his back and makes soothing noises.

Jarvis is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “Would you like to get breakfast tomorrow?”

Tony nearly starts sobbing. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “Jesus, fuck yes. I would _love_ to get breakfast.”

They make plans, and the warmth is back in Jarvis’s voice, and it’s everything Tony’s been needing. He hangs up ten minutes later, drained as hell. Rhodey pulls him into a hug. “Hey,” he says. “I got you. I’m here.”

Tony nods against his shoulder. “I know.”

It’s so much, he thinks. Steve. Jarvis. Rhodey. He feels raw. Cracked open. Laid bare. He’s been hiding behind his armor for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to feel all this, and the instinct to hide again is almost overwhelming.

But Rhodey’s hand is firm in his, when Tony focuses on that, he realizes that he doesn’t _want_ to hide. He’s tired of hiding. It hurts, yes, but it’s also relieving, and Tony thinks that maybe he’s been making a mistake by numbing the pain all these years.

He tells Rhodey this, and Rhodey nods. “You don’t have to hide,” he says. “Not with me. You never have.”

Tony looks down at their hands. “I’m not really ready to date,” he says. “Not right now. Steve and I—“

“We don’t have to date,” Rhodey says. “I’m not asking to date. I’m asking to be your friend. Whatever happens or doesn’t happen after that is fine.” He smiles at Tony, warm and inviting. “You’ve been taking care of Steve for a long time,” he says. “I think it’s your turn to let someone else take care of you.”

Tony’s eyes fill with tears and he leans his head against Rhodey’s shoulder. “Thanks, Rhodey.”

“Always,” he murmurs, leaning his head against Tony’s. “I got your back, man. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

The words warm his heart. No, he doesn’t. Not anymore. He’s got Rhodey, and Jarvis, and Clint, and Bucky, and Natasha. He’s still got Steve, once he gets better. He might even have Pepper, if he gets up the courage to call her.

Tony’s got friends. He’s got _family_.

 _You don't have to do this alone,_ he thinks, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	4. Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What will Anthony Stark do next?_
> 
> It’s the question on everyone’s mind. The one being asked in forums, and on interviews, and gossip TV shows. He’s practically a household name, and everyone wants a piece of him.
> 
> Joke’s on them, though, because _Anthony_ Stark isn’t doing shit. _Tony_ Stark, on the other hand, is having the best time of his life.

If Tony thought _Days and Nights_ went well…well, _The Things My Hands Have Held_ completely puts it to shame. Tony was not exactly unknown before, but now he’s a celebrity. He can’t go to the store or walk down the streets without getting mobbed.

He spends a year with the company, then gives his last performance to a packed house and a standing ovation. His cast mates give him flowers, and he makes a short speech, trying to give thanks to everyone that’s helped him get to this point. He even drags Clint out from backstage and the crowd cheers for him too. Then they cheer louder when Bucky joins them, gets down on one knee, and offers Clint a ring.

Tony watches Clint’s face turn bright red, thoroughly enjoying the stammering and _what-the-hell_ look. It’s even better when he finally nods, and Bucky pulls him into a stage-worthy kiss that nearly brings the entire house down with how loud everyone is screaming.

Clint finds him backstage afterwards. “I’m sorry,” he says, unable to hide his joy. “I didn’t mean to upstage your night. I had no idea he was gonna do that.”

“I knew,” Tony assures him. “We talked about it. He had my permission.” He pulls Clint into a hug. “I owe you a lot, Clint. And this isn’t just my night, it’s yours too. You wrote this thing. All I did was help bring it to life.”

Clint buries his face in Tony’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says. “Like, not as much as I love Bucky, but maybe almost as much as I love my dog. Or coffee.”

“Oh _wow_ ,” Tony says, honestly feeling a little touched. “I think I might cry.”

Bucky smirks as he comes around the corner and finds them. “Clint Barton,” he says. “I just dramatically proposed to you, and then I catch you hugging some other guy? I’m hurt.”

“Shut up,” Clint says. “We’re having a moment.”

Tony grins at Bucky over Clint’s shoulder. “Yeah, Barnes. He just said he loves me as much as coffee. In the grand scheme of things, I think that puts me only half a step below you. Better watch out.”

Bucky puts a hand on his heart. “Clint. Is that true?”

“Very true,” Clint says, arms still around Tony.. “I’m not sorry.”

He sighs in mock despair. “Alright,” he says. “Guess I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll just go have this cake on my own.”

Clint immediately lets go of Tony. “Cake?”

“ _Chocolate_ cake.” Bucky holds out a hand. “Interested?”

Clint takes his hand and wraps his arm around Bucky’s side. “Definitely.” He looks back at Tony. “You coming?”

“In a minute,” Tony says, looking around. “I gotta find someone.”

He finds Steve by the back door, where he always used to wait for Tony after performances. He’s leaning against the wall and flipping something in his hand. Tony stops for a moment to take him in. He looks…better. He’s still skinny, and there’s still a haunted look behind his eyes. But he smiles at Tony when he sees him, and Tony can finally see _his_ Steve in that smile.

“Nice job, Tones,” he says, and he opens his arms.

Tony barrels into him, burying his face into his chest. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“I love you, Tony. I wouldn’t have missed it.”

They break apart, and Steve offers him something. “I want you to have this,” he says, pressing a bronze coin into Tony’s hand. “It’s my one-year chip.”

“Steve…” Tony rubs his thumb over the etchings on the coin. “I can’t have this. It’s _yours_. You earned it.”

“And I want you to have it.” Steve folds his hand over it, and Tony’s. “You got me into rehab, Tony. And you were there for me all those years before. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t be here without you.” He takes a deep breath. “But it was wrong of me to put it all on you. I shouldn’t have done that, and I’ll regret the way I treated you forever. I’m sorry.”

Tony’s eyes fill with tears, and he just accepts the fact that this is going to be an emotional night. “Steve…”

“Shh,” Steve says, kissing his forehead. “Accept the apology, Tones.”

“I do. I forgive you.” And he does. He forgave Steve a long time ago. He still hurts from it sometimes, still thinks about the things Steve said to him when he was drunk and angry. But he’s got Rhodey, and Jarvis, and his other friends. He’s spent the last year rediscovering Tony Stark, and learning how to cope without his armor. He’s not the same person he was a year ago.

Steve takes his hand off Tony’s. “I love you,” he says, hugging Tony again. “And I always will.”

“I love you too,” Tony says, and it feels like letting something go. Like taking a breath after being underwater. It’s cathartic, and there’s a weight slowly melting from his shoulders. One he didn’t even know was there until it was gone.

Steve lets him go, offering a shaky, but sincere smile. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna leave.”

“You can stay,” Tony says. “We have cake, apparently.”

“No,” Steve says. “I think it would be better if I didn’t.” He motions towards the stairs in the hallway. “Besides, I think your friend is waiting for you.”

Tony turns to see Rhodey waiting at the top of them. He nods once at Steve, then locks eyes with Tony, tilting his head back towards the main stage in a questioning movement.

“Not that you need my permission,” Steve says quietly. “But I think you would be happy with him.”

Tony blinks. “Huh?”

“Just a thought,” Steve says, a ghost of a smile on his face. “It’s the way you’re looking at him.” Tony snickers at that, and Steve pats his shoulder. “You did great tonight, Tones. You should be proud. Proud of all of it.”

Tony looks at the chip in his hand. “You too,” he says. “You can always call me if you need help.”

“I’d be happy to.”

They smile at each other, saying goodbye without actually saying it. Tony _does_ love him, and he always will. But they’re not good for each other. It’s better this way. Painful, but healing, and he feels more whole for it.

“See you later,” Tony says, tucking the chip into his pocket. Then he turns and goes up the stairs, stopping on Rhodey’s step. Behind him, he hears the door close with a quiet _snick_.

Rhodey tilts his head at him with a curious expression. “So,” he says. “You two back together?”

“What would you say if we were?”

Rhodey shrugs. “Whatever makes you happy, Tony. You know I’m here for you.” But there’s a disappointment in his voice that he can’t quite hide.

 _I think you would be happy with him,_ he hears Steve’s voice say, and the _rightness_ of it flows through him like a sudden river. Tony can’t stop himself from grinning at it.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” Tony says, stepping up one more. He’s a little taller than Rhodey now, and he can look down into his brown eyes. It’s so different from Steve, and yet… “I’m laughing at you, you idiot.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He slides his hand up the railing. “I love him, Rhodes. And I’m always gonna. But we’re not back together. We aren’t good for each other, and we both know it.”

“Oh,” Rhodey says, an edge of relief in his voice. “Okay. Good to know, I guess.”

“Besides,” Tony adds, leaning a littler closer. “There’s someone else I kinda like.”

“Oh yeah? Do I know him?”

“Probably,” Tony says. “He’s tall. Pretty smart. Good with his hands. Brilliant at stage design. Tells shitty jokes, though.”

“Ah,” Rhodey says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Bruce.”

Tony bursts out laughing, and has to hold onto the railing to keep from falling over. “Sure,” he wheezes. “ _Bruce_. That’s it. That’s the guy.” He reaches out and grabs Rhodey’s shirt, then pushes him backwards until his back hits the wall. “You nailed it,” he breathes, their lips inches from each other, and then he kisses him.

Rhodey makes a surprised noise, but after a moment, he kisses back. It’s soft, and a little hesitant, and they take their time, gently exploring each other.

Finally they break apart, both a little breathless. “Tony,” Rhodey murmurs, and he leans his forehead against his. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Tony whispers, and he kisses him again.

Above them, there’s a smattering of applause on the landing. Tony breaks the kiss and turns his head to see Bucky and Clint standing there, grinning like a couple of idiots. “About fucking time,” Clint says, leaning on Bucky. “I thought you were never gonna take the hint.”

“Oh, you are _so_ not one to talk about hints,” Bucky says, poking him. “I basically had to put up a neon sign before you _finally_ realized I wanted to fuck you.”

Clint blushes, and Tony sighs. “Weren’t you two supposed to be off eating cake?”

“We did,” Bucky says, pointing at a plate resting on the railing. “But I came to get you, because it’s _your_ cake, and everyone is wondering where you are.”

Tony sighs. “The adoring crowds require my presence,” he says to Rhodey, winding their hands together. “Care to tag along?”

He doesn’t really want to leave. He wants to stay here in this stairwell and kiss Rhodey forever. But duty calls, and he doesn’t want to go it alone.

“Sure,” Rhodey says, squeezing his hand. “I’d love to.”

“Great.” Tony kisses him one more time, feeling happier than he has in years. “Alright then. Let’s go have some cake.”

* * *

_What will Anthony Stark do next?_

It’s the question on everyone’s mind. The one being asked in forums, and on interviews, and gossip TV shows. He’s practically a household name, and everyone wants a piece of him.

Joke’s on them, though, because _Anthony_ Stark isn’t doing shit. _Tony_ Stark, on the other hand, is having the best time of his life.

His days are spent at the theater. Any theater, honestly. It doesn’t matter which one. He has a particular fondness for Green Room Studios, given that that’s where he got his start, but he tries to spread himself around to all the local places. He hangs around with the stage hands, and the crew members, and the various casts that cycle their way through. After the first few months, everyone just rolls with it, and no one bats an eye when he shows up. He overhears someone refer to him one day as the phantom of the theater, which makes makes him immensely proud—once he stops laughing about it, that is.

Rhodey raises an eyebrow when he comes home with that one. “You hang around in the rafters and murder people?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” Tony tells him. “The rest of the week I just randomly appear to dispense advice, and then I leave. It’s good fun.”

“You’re so weird,” Rhodey says, but he kisses Tony anyway.

He _is_ weird. But he’s having a good time, so he’s okay with it. Besides, he’s famous. He’s allowed to be a little eccentric. So he just keeps doing his thing, and spreads some rumors on the side. _I heard Stark sleeps in the costume closet, and hangs in them upside down like a bat. I heard he lives in a luxury subbasement under the orchestra pit. I heard he connected all the local theaters with underground tunnels. I heard he’s part of a secret organization of actors that get together annually._

Tony both confirms and denies all of these whenever they come up. Really, they live in a little brownstone townhouse, having ditched his giant apartment about six months into the relationship. Tony had let Rhodey pick the place after they’d decided to move in together. His only stipulation had been that it have a reading nook where he could sit in the sun and read Shakespeare. But he prefers to keep that truth to himself, so he just smiles mysteriously and keeps everyone else spinning in circles.

He even gets his friends in on it. In an interview, a TV host flat out asks Clint if the secret organization thing is true.

“Totally,” Clint says with a straight face. “The initiation was wild, too. I’d tell you more, but then I’d have to kill you.”

The TV host laughs uncomfortably, but when Clint doesn't elaborate, she clears her throat and moves on.

So Tony’s days are spent at the theaters, hanging out and embracing his slowly growing reputation. But his nights, oh, his nights—

Those are spent with Rhodey.

It’s so _different_ from Steve. Where Steve was messy, Rhodey is pin-neat and meticulous. Where Steve commanded a room just by being in it, Rhodey tends to stay in the background. Where Steve burned bright and brilliant, Rhodey is more quiet. More reserved. He’s everything Steve wasn’t.

Tony fucking loves it.

They fit together so _easily_. Like two halves of a puzzle, coming together to form a full picture, and Tony wonders how he ever went a day without this man. Rhodey treats him like he _means_ something, like he’s a person worth knowing. Worth being around. And it’s the same thing he’s always done, honestly, but now there’s something _more_ to it. Something better.

 _You are worth knowing,_ Rhodey says when Tony mentions it one night. He’s two whiskeys deep, leaning back on the couch and watching Tony dramatically perform Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” soliloquy. He’s watching Tony with an amused, yet tender expression, and Tony stops in the middle of his speech to ask him why.

“Why what?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I’m glad I know you.” He grins at Tony’s confused expression. “What?”

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Tony says.

“They should,” Rhodey tells him. “You’re worth knowing.”

Tears spring up suddenly, blurring his vision, and Tony wipes at them. A year ago he would have felt ashamed about it, but he’s long since stopped hiding his heart from Rhodey. “No one’s ever said that, either.”

Rhodey beckons him forward, and Tony sits down on top of him, curling into Rhodey’s lap like he’s a baby. “You _are_ worth knowing,” he murmurs in Tony’s ear as he wraps his arms around him. “You’re funny, and you’re sensitive, and you’re smart. You could be taking any job you want, and instead you spend your time helping other people get to where you are. You’ve got such a good heart, Tones. I’m proud to call you my boyfriend.”

Tony curls into him tighter, burying his face in Rhodey’s neck. “You’re the best,” he says, hoping those three words are enough to convey the rest of what he wants to say. He’s got a thousand monologues memorized, but none of them adequately describe what Rhodey means to him. So he just says it again, and thanks every god in the universe that he was lucky enough to have this.

“Anything for you, Tones.”

They sit like that for a while, and then Rhodey pats his back. “Don’t you have a speech to finish?”

Tony laughs and sits up. “Hamlet’s depressing. How about _Midsummer’s Night Dream?”_

“Sure,” Rhodey says.

Tony gets to his unsteady feet, hand still around his own glass. He doesn’t drink as much as he used to with Steve, but he still likes to indulge every now and then. “Alright,” he says, taking a pose. “My mistress with a _monster_ is in love…”

* * *

The Barton-Barnes wedding is a relatively quiet affair, all things considered. Tony had expected a spectacular phenomenon, given that Kate Bishop and Natasha planned it together, but he’s pleasantly surprised otherwise.

He catches Clint over by the bar during the reception. Clint looks happy as hell while also managing to look mildly uncomfortable. Despite being an acclaimed playwright, he’s still not happy with being the center of attention. “Hey,” he says to Tony. “Did you try the cupcakes?”

“Sure did,” Tony says. “Congrats, man. You both look great. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, reaching up to brush his hand through his hair.

Tony whacks it aside. “Stop that. If you mess your hair up, Natasha will kill you.”

“Habit,” Clint says, but he drops his hand. Then he nods over at Rhodey, who’s standing with Natasha and Bucky. “You guys look happy too. Much happier than you did with Steve, honestly.”

Tony watches Rhodey laugh at something Natasha says. “I am happy,” he says. “Partially thanks to you, by the way.”

“Me?”

“I saw you two,” Tony says, gesturing to Bucky. “And it made me think about what Steve and I had, and how hard it was all the time.”

“This hasn’t been easy either,” Clint says. “I mean, we make it look easy. But it’s not. I wouldn’t trade a second of it, but it’s been a bitch to get here. We’re both idiots when it come to love.”

“But you both _try_.” Tony sips his drink. “Steve and I…we weren’t trying. He was losing it, and I was just clinging to something—some _one_ —that I wasn’t.”

Clint smiles a little. “Well. At least you figured it out.”

“Took me long enough.”

“Yeah. But look what you got out of it.” Clint shrugs. “I don’t believe in destiny, or whatever, but I do think we meet the right people at the right time. I think maybe you _had_ to spend the time you did with Pepper, and with Steve. They helped make you who you are, you know?”

He nods at Bucky. “I was seeing a girl for a long time before him. High school sweetheart thing. Bobbi was…well, she was pretty great actually. But _I_ was a hot mess. I was depressed, and apathetic, and I was awful to be around. She helped a lot, but eventually she walked out on me one day. Told me she couldn’t take it anymore. That was when I started writing _Bent._ ”

Clint reaches for his hair again, then stops when Natasha narrows her eyes at him from across the room. “I wouldn’t be here today without that,” he says. “Not like, _I wouldn’t be alive_ here. I mean here, in this room, with this guy. Point is, as much as I wish I’d met Bucky earlier, it wouldn’t have been the right time, and I wasn’t the right person. I had to go through all of that first. And it was worth it, in the end. Gave me some perspective. Helped me not fuck this up as bad as I could’ve.” He pats Tony’s arm. “Maybe it’s the same for you. You weren’t ready, before. Now you are.”

Tony thinks about it. About the way both Pepper and Steve had, in their own ways, helped forge him. Clint’s right. Without those years—the good times, the mistakes, the moments in between— he wouldn’t love and appreciate Rhodey as much as he does. He wasn’t ready, before. Now he is. Now he _knows_ what he has.

“You know,” he says to Clint, “for a self-proclaimed idiot, you’re actually pretty smart.”

“I have my days.” Clint pulls him into a hug. “I’m really glad you’re here, man.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

They break apart as a new song starts up, a fast beat that sets his heart thrumming. Rhodey appears at his side. “Hey,” he says, tugging on Tony’s arm. “Come dance with me.”

“Go on,” Clint says, waving a hand. “I’m gonna find Bucky.”

“He’s by the dessert table. Eating the last of the cake, last I saw.”

“No. The chocolate cake?”

“Yep.”

“That rotten _bastard_ ,” Clint says, and he shoulders past Rhodey, muttering something about divorce. Tony watches him go, unable to stop himself from grinning.

Rhodey tugs his hand again. “Come on. Dance.”

Tony grabs him instead, pinning him against the wall for a kiss. It’s hot and filthy and probably not appropriate for the moment, but he can’t really help himself.

“What was that for?” Rhodey asks when he finally pulls back, both of them gasping for air.

“I love you,” Tony tells him, honest and open. “I love you so fucking much, and I’m so glad I met you, and I would do everything all over again if it meant we ended up here, together.”

Rhodey blinks, and then a smile spreads across his face. It’s slow and brilliant and it outshines the goddamn sun. “You love me?”

“More than anything.”

Rhodey kisses him again. “Good,” he says, “because I love you too. Every single thing about you, all the way down to that stupid little goatee.”

Tony laughs and puts his head on Rhodey’s shoulder. He’s never been this happy in his life. He’s not sure how one heart can hold this much joy, honestly, and more than ever he’s glad it’s not surrounded by armor anymore. Cutting himself off from pain was easier, but it numbed everything else too—happiness, love, excitement. Not worth it, in the end. He’d gladly endure a thousand heartbreaks to have a single moment like this.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Rhodey away from the wall. “Let’s go dance.”

* * *

Tony is lounging in the theater and watching auditions when he first meets Peter Parker. He takes an immediate liking to the kid—he reminds Tony of himself, in a way. Young, and impressionable, with an annoying yet endearing way of stammering over his own words. He watches with vague amusement as Parker auditions for the part of Mercutio.

“Thank you,” the producer says about halfway through his monologue. “We appreciate your time.”

“Oh,” Parker says. His face flushes red, and he clears his throat. “Oh, okay. Um, well, thank you for _your_ time. I’m really—I appreciate it too, I know you guys are busy—”

“Next!” the producer calls, and Parker hustles his way off the stage. Tony sips his latte and snickers, remembering all of the time he’d been dismissed in the same way. It’s like watching a mirror into his past. Parker mutters something to himself, then starts to walk past where Tony’s half-hidden in the shadows.

“You’re too lighthearted,” he says, and Parker jumps at the sound of his voice.

“What?”

“Your audition. Mercutio’s a jokester, but there’s undertones to it. He’s mocking the whole blind love thing. He’s very much a cynical realist kind of guy. Your audition was good, but it didn’t have the darkness they wanted.” He clears his throat and lowers his voice, slipping into Mercutio’s bitter character with ease. “True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but fantasy. Which is as thin of substance as the air, and more inconstant than the wind, who woos even now the frozen bosom of the north. And, being angered, puffs away from then, turning his face to the dew-dropping south.”

Parker is staring at him. “Uh…”

Tony stands up and moves into the light. “Tony Stark,” he says, offering a hand.

“Mr. Stark?” Parker blinks, then grabs his hand with enthusiasm. “Oh, wow. Wow. It’s…it’s great—it’s so great to meet you. Big—big fan. My name’s Peter, Peter Parker.”

“I heard.” Tony gently pries his hand from the kid’s grip. “Anyway. You want my advice? Know your characters before you go in. It’s not enough to audition. You have to _become_ that character. Speaking the words and actually being Mercutio are two different things. Got it?”

“Got it,” Parker says. “Wow. Thank you so much, Mr. Stark.”

“Anytime.” Tony waves his hand. “Go on. Get out of here. Don’t stop trying. You’ve got the talent. Now learn to play the game.”

Parker stammers out another thank you, and he stumbles away, looking slightly dazed. Tony finishes the rest of his latte and heads home.

After that, he sees Parker everywhere. He’s not sure if Parker’s auditioning more, or if he just has a knack for finding the same theaters, but it feels like some days he can’t turn a corner without running into the kid. Parker greets him every time with the same wild enthusiasm and awkwardness. Tony keeps waiting for it to become annoying, but it doesn’t.

“I like this kid,” he tells Rhodey one night. “He’s…”

“You,” Rhodey says as he pulls his work boots off. “He’s totally you, before you figured it out.”

“Oh, come on,” Tony says. “You never saw me when I was that young.”

“No,” Rhodey admits. “But Pepper showed me a couple videos of your first auditions. They’re cute.”

“I’m gonna kill her,” Tony sighs as he rolls into bed.

Rhodey snickers. “So what do you like about him?”

Tony waves a hand. “Eh. He’s smart, and talented. Really talented. He’s only a few drinks and fifteen years of self-loathing from being me.”

“You want that for him?”

“To end up like me?” Tony looks at him. “I’m pretty awesome, but no. I don’t.”

“You know you can’t stop him from making mistakes.”

“I don’t want to. My mistakes are the best part of me.” He smiles at Rhodey. “They got me here, after all. But I think I might be able to nudge him a little bit. Help keep it from being bad.” He pulls the blanket up. “I had Jarvis, and you, and Pepper, and Steve sometimes. To help keep me grounded. But I really wish I’d had someone _in_ the profession to talk with.”

“A mentor.”

“Kind of, yeah. Nat and I talked a lot, but that was more commiserating than advice giving.”

“You wanna mentor him?”

Tony stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he says. “Do you think I’d even be good at it? Maybe I’d make things worse for him.”

“Don’t say that.” Rhodey gets into bed and turns his lamp off. “You’ve been doing this a long time, Tony, and you’re good at it. You’re the one who made it. I think you have a lot of wisdom to give.” His hand covers Tony’s in the darkness. “Besides, you’re already giving people advice. Has anything terrible happened to anyone yet?”

“No,” Tony admits.

“Then quit second guessing yourself, Tones. You think you can help this kid? Then go for it. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll try,” Tony says. “Thanks, love.”

“Anytime.” Rhodey squeezes his hand. “By the way, Clint called me. He wants you call him tomorrow.” He pauses, then adds, “You should call Jarvis too. He’s much better at this mentor thing than I am.”

“It’s the accent,” Tony tells him. “Makes everything he says sound wise.”

“Makes sense.”

* * *

“I think you would be a great mentor,” Jarvis says to him the next morning. “You are smarter than you give yourself credit for, my boy.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Tony says. “Does Hallmark make a ‘hey, I can be your mentor’ card?”

Jarvis laughs. “Just let him know you’re there for him, Tony. And that you’re willing to help him as much as he needs. Sometimes he will take your advice, sometimes he will not.” Tony winces, thinking of the years he didn’t take Jarvis’s advice. “And be patient. It is not your place to make mistakes for him, or prevent him from making his own. Be supportive, be available, and keep his best interests in mind. That’s all.”

“Thanks, J.” Tony clears his throat. “Wanna meet up for lunch tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, I have a medical appointment in the city at noon. However, I would be happy to meet with you later in the week.”

“A medical appointment? What’s wrong?”

There’s a beat, and then Jarvis says, “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jarvis.”

He sighs. “I don’t know yet, Tony. We can discuss it over dinner. Will that do?”

Tony swallows, tucking the worry into the back of his mind. “Okay.”

They make plans to meet, then he hangs up. Rhodey looks up at him from where he’s pulling his shoes on. “Everything alright, Tones?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says, looking at his phone. “I’ll let you know later.”

Rhodey nods. “Don’t forget to call Clint,” he says. “I gotta go to work. Text me if you need me, okay?”

“Kay,” Tony says, kissing him goodbye. He loves that about Rhodey, that he doesn’t pry. Pepper would have worked at him until he spilled his secrets. Steve might have done the same, if only to have something to mock him with later. Rhodey just trusts him to talk when he’s ready.

Tony dials Clint next. The phone almost goes to voicemail before Bucky answers, his voice sleepy. “Hello?”

“Bucky? It’s Tony.”

“Oh, yeah! Hey, one sec. Let me get Clint, he’s in writing mode. I’ll bribe him out with coffee.”

There’s muffled voices, and a few other sounds, and then Clint’s voice comes on the line. “Tony, hey. What’s up?”

“You called me,” Tony says. “Yesterday.”

“Oh, right.” He sighs. “Uh, I— _we_ , sorry—have an idea to pitch to you. Can you meet us at that one cafe in an hour?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the lattes?”

“Clint, all cafes have lattes.”

“He means the one on the corner,” Bucky says, cutting in. “With the really good sandwiches.”

“Oh, that one. Okay, yeah. I can be there.”

“Great,” Clint says. “See you there.”

An hour later, Clint and Bucky drop into chairs opposite Tony and present him with a large stack of loose papers. “It’s very unorganized,” Clint says, “as per my usual. But this is our idea.”

Tony skims through the papers. He immediately recognizes the dialogue. “Is this…”

“Yep,” Bucky says. “And there’s the music for that part.” He points at another paper.

“It’s a musical,” Tony says. He leafs through the rest of it, reading quickly.

“Uh-huh,” Clint says, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. Trading one nervous habit for another. “An abridged one. Updated for this century.”

“You want to turn _Hamlet_ into an abridged musical.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m guessing you want me to play Hamlet?”

“Actually, we want you for Claudius.”

Tony looks at the script, and then at Bucky, who shrugs a little. “Could be fun,” he says. “We’re still in the early stages, but we’d like your input.”

“Okay,” Tony says, taking a drink of his latte. “I’m in.”

“Great!” Clint gathers the papers. “Buck, call Nat. We need her for Ophelia.”

“Actually,” Tony says, a thought occurring to him. “Hang on. I have an idea.”

“For Ophelia?”

“No.” Tony pulls out his phone. “For your Hamlet.”

* * *

It takes Tony a while to get Parker to agree to being Hamlet. Half the time is spent getting him to calm down and stop saying thank you, and the other half is spent convincing him that he’s worthy to have the part.

“I’ve heard you sing,” Tony says. “And watched you audition. You’re _good_ , kid. You’re almost as good as I was. Maybe better.”

“Yeah, but this is _big_ , Mr. Stark. Really big. I don’t know—”

“You don’t know that,” Tony interrupts. “It might be big. It might be a total flop. Just because it’s got big names attached to it doesn't mean it's gonna be good. I can name you a long list of plays that had all-star casts and absolutely crashed opening night.” He pushes another cup of coffee at Parker. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter if it’s big or small. I’m offering you a part, kid. Take it.”

Parker stares at the table between them. “I don’t need charity,” he finally says.

“It’s not charity if we pay you for it,” Tony says, remembering his own conversation with Bruce years ago. He smiles. “In any case. This is my all time favorite play, Parker. I wouldn’t offer you the biggest part if I didn’t think you could do it.”

Parker considers for a moment. Eventually, he nods. “Okay, Mr. Stark.”

“Call me Tony,” he says. “Please.”

“Call me Peter, then.”

“Alright, Peter.” Tony hands him a piece of paper. “Meet us here tomorrow. We’re gonna hash out some songs. We need your voice.”

Peter opens his mouth, and Tony shoves a pastry in it. “Don’t start thanking me again,” he says. “If I hear the words _thank you_ out of your mouth one more time, you’re fired.” He gets up and pulls on his jacket.

Peter chews the pastry and swallows. “See you tomorrow,” he says, eyes wide.

Tony nods. “See you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

* * *

Two weeks later, he finally gets around to having breakfast with Jarvis. It’s fine at first. They do the usual catch-up, and they order, and make small talk about the weather. Tony tells him about _Hamlet,_ and Peter. Jarvis nods and smiles and offers more advice.

In the in-between moments, though, Tony studies him. The man looks the same as always—maybe a little older, a little thinner—but there’s something off about him. A quiet undertone of sadness to his movements. His smile doesn’t touch his eyes, and vanishes quickly when he thinks Tony’s not looking.

“Hey,” Tony finally says. “What’s wrong?”

Jarvis bites his lip, then sets his fork down. “You know I had my appointment in the city a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah.” Trepidation trickles through Tony. “What happened?”

There’s a second of silence, and then, “Stage-four pancreatic cancer.”

The words take a moment to sink in. There’s an awful heartbeat where Tony thinks _joking, he’s got to be joking, please let him be joking._

He’s not. It’s clear in his face, and his posture, and the fear in his eyes that he’s so desperately trying to hide.

Tony drops his fork. He’s not hungry anymore. “How…how long?”

“Six months,” Jarvis says quietly. “There’s nothing they can do. It’s spread too far.”

“Jesus,” Tony says. “Are…are you sure?”

“Yes.” Jarvis reaches out and takes his hand. “It’s alright, Tony. Honestly. I’ve made my peace with it.” He smiles sadly.

“I have money,” Tony says, trying to keep himself under control. “We can try—there’s a hospital—I know some good doctors…”

“No,” Jarvis says. “No, Tony. I don’t want to spend the last months of my life as a pincushion in a hospital.” He squeezes Tony’s hand. “I want to keep things as normal as possible. You are my family, Tony. I just want to spend this time with you. Can we do that? Please?”

Tony squeezes back, feeling tears burn his eyes. “Okay,” he says softly, pulling himself together. “Okay, J. We can do that. I promise.”

* * *

Jarvis spends the last months of his life living with Rhodey and Tony. He begs off it at first, telling Tony that he doesn’t want to be a burden.

“You’re not a burden,” Tony stubbornly insists. “And if you really think I’m going to let you die from cancer all alone in your little cabin, you’ve got another think coming.”

“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Rhodey says. “Be quiet and let us take care of you.”

“Consider it a thank you,” Tony adds. “You spend the last thirty years taking care of me. Now it’s my turn.”

Jarvis nods and takes the blanket Tony wraps around him. “Alright, my boy. If you insist.”

“We very much insist,” Tony says, hugging him. “So deal with it.”

He takes time off _Hamlet_. Probably more than he should, but Clint and Bucky won’t hear of anything less. When he does go, he takes Jarvis with him. They bundle him into the front row of the theater and he watches them rehearse, a small smile on his face the whole time.

“I want to make it to your premiere,” he says to Tony one afternoon. It’s a bad day, the kind of day where he’s having trouble moving because he hurts too much. “That’s all I want.”

“I want that too,” Tony says, wrapping him in another blanket. _Please, universe. Please let this happen. He deserves the whole world. Please let him live long enough to see it._

Jarvis coughs. “In case I don’t,” he says, looking up at Tony. “I want you to know that I am proud as always. Not just of your performances, but the man you have become.”

“I know you are, J,” Tony says, smoothing his hair back. He offers him a glass of water. “I love you.”

“I love you as well,” Jarvis says, and he smiles.

* * *

Six months later, _Hamlet: The Abridged Musical_ premieres in Radio City Music Hall, with Tony absolutely _killing_ it in his wine-drunken rendition of Claudius. Natasha plays Gertrude, his loving queen, and he honestly can’t remember the last time he had this much fun at a premiere. Their final song has the audience rolling on the floor, and he and Natasha take bows to thunderous applause.

Peter stars as Hamlet. His first lines are nervous, but after a few minutes, he settles into the character with all the grace and poise Tony knew he possessed. A girl named MJ plays Ophelia opposite him, and Tony occasionally notes Peter singing to her with a little more enthusiasm than might really be warranted for his character.

“Oh yeah,” Nat says, when he points it out to her. She tightens up her costume. “He’s head over heels for her. It’s cute.”

Tony just shakes his head and watches. “No one tells me anything.”

“To be fair,” she says. “You’ve been distracted.” She kisses his cheek. “Is he here?”

“Best seat in the house.”

“Good.” She smiles at him. “I’m glad he got to see it.”

“Me too.”

When the show is over, the whole cast comes out and takes a bow. The standing ovation goes on for several minutes, only ending when Tony finally gets a microphone and manages to coax them back into their seats.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he says. “I just want to say one thing. Theater is a group effort, and none of us would be standing here on this stage without everyone else’s help. But as for me, personally, there’s one person I would like to dedicate this night to.”

He reaches into his costume and pulls out a worn and battered book. “When I was thirteen,” he says, holding it up to the audience, “our family butler gave me this book. It’s a complete edition of all of Shakespeare’s plays. Heavy reading for a kid, I know, but hey. I was weird even back then.”

The audience chuckles politely. Tony opens the front cover. “He left me a note in here. A quote from Teddy Roosevelt. ‘Do what you can, with all you have, wherever you are. _’_ And underneath that, he wrote ‘and know that I will always support you.’”

He closes the book. “None of us would be here without everyone’s help. But I, in particular, owe my entire career and most of my life to that man. The one guy who believed in me right from the start, long before I believed in myself.” His voice wavers, but he keeps going. “At my worst moments, you were a light in the darkness. And at my best moments, you were right there beside me, cheering me on. You always say you’re proud of the man I’ve become. Well, I’ve become that man because of you.”

He clears his throat. “I love you, J, and I’m proud as hell to call you my father. So I dedicate this performance, and the rest of the run, to you. Thank you for everything. I love you.”

The tears come then, and Natasha has to pry the microphone from his hand to finish the rest of the speech for him. He looks up and finds Jarvis, a look of pride and love shining on his face. Their eyes meet from across the stage, and everything else fades away for a moment. Tony remembers being thirteen again, sitting in the backseat of the car as they drove home from the school. The first time he’d ever been up on stage.

_“I want to be an actor. I want—Jarvis, I want to do that again.”_

_“Then do it. Do it, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Be the very best there is.”_

Jarvis nods at him, and Tony nods back. Nothing else needs to be said.

* * *

Per Jarvis’s wishes, the funeral is small—just Tony and his friends, really. Tony’s not sure if it’s a nod to the relatively private life he led, or his desire to protect Tony from another spectacle like his parents’ funeral. Either way, he appreciates it. He prefers to grieve in private.

Surprisingly, it hurts less than when his parents died. He mentions this to Rhodey afterwards, when everyone else is on their way to the funeral home, and it’s just the two of them standing over Jarvis’s grave.

“You got to say goodbye this time,” Rhodey says. “That helps.”

Tony nods and puts his hand on Jarvis’s tombstone. “I miss him.”

“I know.” Rhodey pulls him into a hug. “He loved you so much, man. It was easy to see how much you meant to him.”

“I wish he was still here.”

“He is.” Rhodey holds him tighter. “He’s in your heart, Tones. Just like the rest of us. You’re never alone, love. Wherever you are, we’re always there with you.”

Tony leans into his embrace. “You really think that?”

“Of course I do.” Rhodey shrugs. “I think the people we know always stay with us, in some way. You can’t come into contact with someone without being changed by them. Especially not someone like Jarvis. He’s a part of you now, and he always will be. Every time you talk with Peter, or help out on set, or buy some hungry theater kid breakfast. He’s in all of those things, because he’s the one who taught you to do them.”

Tony nods into his shoulder. “Love you,” he murmurs.

“Love you too,” Rhodey says. “Come on. Let’s go meet the others.”

“I’ll be there in a moment.” Tony kisses him. “Go start the car.”

Rhodey leaves, and Tony kneels down, digging his fingers into the fresh dirt. He thinks about the last time he did this, at his father’s grave. How he’d felt so awful about being a bad son, and the guilt and shame that had weighed on him.

There’s no guilt now. No shame. Just a quiet sadness mixed with a sense of peace.

Tony scoops up a handful of dirt and sprinkles it over the grave. “Bye, Jarvis,” he says. “And…thank you.”

* * *

Two months later, Tony is pushing a cart through the grocery store when he _literally_ runs into Steve. “Whoa,” he says, stepping back to get his balance. “Hello there.”

Steve laughs and steadies him. “Hey,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I do shop for myself on occasion.” Tony gestures to the cart. “Not that Instacart isn’t great, but I like to pick my own produce.”

“Same.”

They stare at each other for a moment, unsure what to say. Then a guy comes around the corner with a cereal box in his hand. “Hey, Steve, I got that…” He trails off when he sees Tony. “Oh. Uh, hey. Hi.”

“Tony Stark,” Tony says, offering a hand.

“I know,” the guy says, shaking it. “Steve talks about you a lot. I’m Sam Wilson.”

Tony looks back and forth between the two of them for a second. “Are you guys…”

“Together?” Steve smiles. “Yeah. We met a year ago. He runs a group for veterans at the same place I was going to AA.” He shrugs. “We hit it off and, well…”

“Good for you,” Tony says, and he means it. “That’s awesome, Steve. I’m happy for you both.”

Sam hands the box to Steve. “I’m gonna go grab something else,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Steve puts the box in his own cart, and turns to Tony. “How are you doing? I haven’t heard from you since the funeral.”

“I’m okay,” Tony tells him, and he means it. “Honestly. I’ve got Rhodey, and the _Hamlet_ musical’s doing really well. I miss him, but I’m…I’m good.”

“I saw the musical,” Steve says. “Sam took me to a showing. It was amazing. You did really well.”

“Thanks. It’s been fun.”

There’s another moment of quiet. Then Steve says, “I should go.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m glad you’re happy, Tony.”

“You too.” He hugs Steve. “It was good to see you.”

“Same. Tell Rhodey I said hi.” He shuffles a little. “If you guys are down for it, maybe the four of us could get a coffee sometime.”

Tony smiles. “I’d like that,” he says. “I’d like that a lot.”

* * *

They do end up having coffee, and it’s not as awkward as Tony would have thought. He loves Steve, but he loves more how happy Steve looks with Sam. How much more at ease he seems with himself. It’s nice to see it.

They part ways after a few hours, and Tony takes Rhodey through a Central Park detour. “That was nice,” he says, breathing in the sweet scent of the twilight air. “It’s good to see him doing okay.”

“I agree,” Rhodey says, winding his hand into Tony’s. “He looks a lot healthier. Sam’s good for him.”

“Like you are for me.” Tony kisses him. “I love you.”

They walk over a bridge, and Rhodey tugs him to a stop. “Hey. Wait a second.”

“Yeah?”

Rhodey looks unsure of himself for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “We’ve been together for a long time,” he says.

Tony nods. “Yeah. It’s been great.”

“It has,” Rhodey agrees. “I love it. I love you. I always have, ever since the day I saw you on set with that nail gun.”

“That turned you on, huh?”

“Definitely,” Rhodey says. “But it was more the fact that you were helping. You saw a problem and you put aside what you were supposed to be doing, and you helped. Even when it got you in trouble.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy watching Rhodey’s face, trying to figure out where this is going.

“I knew right away what kind of person you were. That’s the guy I fell in love with. The one who would drop everything to help someone else. And it’s been amazing watching you grow and transform into the person you are today. I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not even the hard parts. It’s been a privilege to be by your side.”

Rhodey reaches into his pocket, then gets down on one knee. “And I want to stay there,” he says. “Forever.” He flips open the box, displaying a simple golden band. “So…will you marry me?”

Tony drops to his knees and kisses him, nearly making Rhodey lose his grip on the box. “Of course I will,” he says once they break apart. “Yes, yes, one-hundred percent _yes_.”

“Good,” Rhodey says, and they kiss again. Rhodey slides the ring on his finger. “I love you, Tones.”

“I love you too,” Tony says. “And I wouldn’t trade a second of it either. Not in a million years.”

* * *

They share the news the next morning, calling their friends one after the other. Natasha and Kate demand pictures of the ring, and start talking wedding plans. Clint and Bucky offer to bring over beer later. Bruce misses his first call, but he returns it later with a hearty congratulations, and promises to fly back out for the wedding. Tony even texts Peter, who answers with a lot of emojis that take him a moment to decipher.

Sam answers Steve’s phone. After congratulating them, he promises to have Steve call later.

Tony calls Pepper last. He saw her at Jarvis’s funeral, but other than a brief hug, he hadn’t spoken to her. Now she answers, and the sound of her voice still makes his heart beat a little faster.

_I think the people we know always stay with us._

“Pepper,” he says. “It’s Tony.”

“Hey, Tony. What’s up?”

“Rhodey proposed to me,” he says.

Pepper gasps. “Tony! That’s wonderful!” Her voice warms. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” he says. He tells her the details per her request, and she squeals over every single one.

“I’m so happy,” she says again. “You guys are meant to be together.”

Tony nods. “I wish I could tell Jarvis. He’d be thrilled.”

“He knows,” she assures him. “Somewhere out there, he knows. And he’s proud.”

“Thanks, Pep.”

“I love you, hon. I gotta go, but I’ll call later, okay? We’re going to talk wedding plans.”

“You and Natasha,” he sighs. “Alright. Love you too.”

Rhodey smiles at him when he hangs up. “That the whole crew?”

“That’s everyone.” He raises a glass of wine. “Come have a drink with me.”

“Sure thing, babe.”

* * *

Tony’s never put a lot of thought into his wedding day, but if he had, he would have pictured it exactly like this anyway. Everything is _perfect_ , from the tuxes, to the colors, to the food, to the vows. He’s in a deliriously happy state all day, barely able to keep his feet on the ground. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of, and everyone he wants to share it with.

Clint finds him out on the balcony of the reception hall, sipping wine in a quiet moment to himself. “You hiding?” he asks, perching on the railing to devour cake.

“Taking a second,” Tony says. “I’m a party guy, but even I need a breather every now and then.”

“I know the feeling.” Clint taps his feet. “What are you thinking about?”

“Jarvis,” Tony says. “I wish he was here.”

Clint nods. “Yeah, man. I know.” He nudges Tony with his foot. “He’d be happy for you.”

“I know he would.” Tony looks out at the setting sun. “So. Any sage advice to dispense this wedding? You did good at the last one.”

He chuckles. “Nah. Not this time. I’m out here because I’m currently hiding from my own husband.”

“Cake stealing?”

“Cake stealing.” Clint confirms, taking another bite. “Marriage is fun that way.”

Tony laughs. “I’m looking forward to it. Cake stealing and all.”

“It’s got its moments,” Clint says. He finishes the cake. “Worth it, in the end. He’s an idiot, but he’s _my_ idiot.”

He gets off the railing and pats Tony on the back. “Come inside. They’re gonna do the whole first dance thing in a minute. It’ll be real awkward if Rhodey’s out there alone.” He puts his arms up and does a terrible impression of a waltz. “Coming?”

Tony chuckles. “Be right there,” he says, casting one last look out over the city. He takes another sip of his wine, then sets it on the balcony and follows Clint inside.

The DJ cues up their song, and Tony steps into Rhodey’s arm. He knows dozen different dances, but this is just a slow turning on the floor, more concerned with being together than with looking fancy.

“Love you,” Rhodey murmurs in his ear. Tony looks around at all their friends, watching the two of them with loving expressions. _How lucky am I,_ he thinks, _to know these people. To have them with me, wherever I am._

“Love you,” he murmurs back, laying his head on Rhodey’s shoulder.

* * *

Peter is nominated for a Tony Award for his Hamlet performance. It takes Tony a while to calm him down and get him to speak at a normal speed. “You’ll be there, right?” he keeps asking. “You’ll be at the Tonys?”

“I’ll be there,” Tony promises.

He is there, and he can’t keep the smile off his face when the presenter calls Peter’s name. He watches with pride as Peter climbs the and takes the heavy trophy. “Wow,” he says into the microphone. “I, uh. Wow. Thank you. I can’t believe this is happening. I’d like to thank a lot of people, but mostly…” He trails off, and meets Tony’s eyes.

Tony raises his drink to him.

“Mostly I want to thank Tony Stark,” Peter says, and smiles back. “Because he believed in me when no one else did. And I would never have made it to this stage without his support. He’s been an incredible role model, and mentor, and I’m really proud to call him my friend.”

It’s almost what Tony said to Jarvis all those months ago, when he was on stage, and the words jolt something in him. He remembers how the butler had attended _his_ first awards show, seated in the back with a look of sheer pride on his face. _I am proud to know you,_ he’d said, when Tony had made his way back to the table with a trophy in hand and a brilliant grin on his face. _And even more, I am proud of you. You are a talented, brilliant young man, and I cannot wait to see what you become._

Looking up at Peter’s face, the excitement easy to read behind the professionalism, Tony thinks that Jarvis would be proud of him. Of both of them.

He raises his glass to Peter, and the kid beams like the sun. “Thank you,” Tony murmurs, and he’s pretty sure that somewhere above him, Jarvis is smiling too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, okay then. 
> 
> Thanks for coming on my feelings ride!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Quote is from Theodore Roosevelt.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
